


Petrichor

by BlameMyMuses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Character Death, Gen, Harry as Master of Death, Master of Death, Strong Language, Violence, a "what if" scenario, canon compliant until DoM battle, grey!Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 54,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlameMyMuses/pseuds/BlameMyMuses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In attempting to stop Sirius from falling through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries, Harry goes half through it himself before being dragged back into the living world. After the battle, things should have gone back to normal...but they don't. Something about Harry is changing, and he doesn't know why, what to do about it, or just what it means for his future confrontations with Voldemort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Kindigo for her amazing job as my Beta, and for putting up with my fickle muses! 
> 
> Also, please forgive my Americanisms. I have no Brit-picker, so I had to do the best I could with my spellcheck set to British-English. I'm sure there are some pretty ridiculous goofs, so just please bear with me! :)

  
The first thing Harry was aware of was the bracing, cold rain that struck him in a rush across the face, and then immediately after was aware that he had somehow hit his knees. He could not recall just how he had come to be in that position, and for several disorienting seconds he didn't even know where he was.  
  
Time seemed to pass strangely around him, flickering half-familiar golden lights made it impossible for him to see. Someone was shouting his name, and he was caught unaware by the sensation of someone yanking hard on the back of his collar. Or was it hands, pushing hard on his chest?  
  
Harry didn't know.  


**HPHPHP**

  
He came back to himself to find Lupin cradling him tightly to his chest, and Harry could feel how badly the older man was shaking, but he seemed unable to give any sign that he was awake. He tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn't work, his lungs wouldn't work. In a panicked moment Harry thrashed inwardly to get his body to react to its demands for air.  
  
A breath rushed in, and in some more until it was too much, he was choking on it, and he could feel fingers digging painfully into his shoulder as Lupin's grip tightened. His ears were filled with a rushing sound that was rapidly fading away, and as it did Harry was suddenly able to hear Bellatrix Lestrange’s sneering baby talk, taunting Lupin.  
  
“Is wittle baby Potty too heart bwoken to go on? Too weak to stand up and fight like a gwown up? Poor, pwecious Hawwy…”  
  
Harry felt his chest tighten with rage, and the rushing poured back in, drowning out her words once more. In a burst of strength, Harry fought free of Lupin’s hold, his wand gripped in his fist still, and found himself face-to-face with the woman who had cursed Sirius into…into that place.  
  
Rage. It was rage, consuming him and blinding him, as he flung his wand out in her direction with a half-mad scream that might have been a furnunclus spell, might not have been any particular spell at all. The light of it drew his sight back into the real world, but it was like tunnel vision, narrow and intent, with his prey at the far end. He was not functioning like any sane person. That knowledge was a distant, ignored thought at the back of his mind. At that moment, Harry was not sane, and couldn't bring himself to care.  
  
Free of Lupin, hurtling after the bright arch of his spell, Harry had just one thought in his mind: Bellatrix Lestrange was going to die.  


**HPHPHP**

  
She ran, and he gave chase, throwing blasting curses and other offensive spells at her back, but rarely hitting his target, and with her cackling madly all the while. Harry was barely aware of his surroundings, rage blind and numb all at once. It would hurt later—Merlin, how he knew it would hurt later—but in those moments he was like a predator, intent on playing with his prey before he ended it.  
  
She vanished into a lift, skirts and robes nearly getting caught in the door. Cursing, Harry threw himself into the next lift and followed her up, only hoping he managed to guess her destination correctly.  
  
The sudden brightness of the Atrium scored his eyes with light scars, and for the precious seconds that he was blinking furiously, the mad woman took advantage and used his distraction to slip under his defenses. He felt the pain of her Crucio before he'd even registered the word, and though he felt like curling in on himself, screaming with the agony of it, he instead did just what she would least expect, and launched himself at her, bringing his wand up and sending yet another blasting curse at the source of his pain.  
  
Something cracked and shattered, but Bellatrix's mad laughter rang out in the aftermath, and Harry swung his face towards it, and saw her just ducking behind the hideous fountain that filled the center of the atrium. He threw another uncertain spell at her, and missed, but even before the spell landed he was moving around the statue in the opposite direction, hoping to meet her face on.  
  
He did, of course. She was expecting such a move--he was a Gryffindor, after all, and predictable for it--and as soon as their eyes met she cast another Crucio. It was her favorite, and she was good at it. Harry faltered as it struck home, hit a knee, then kept going, wand out before him like a sword.  
  
"Impedimenta!" he shouted, and finally his spell hit its target. She slowed, her reactions dragging and Harry sent a scorching fire spell which caught hold of her robes and started climbing them like burning ivy. She could hardly move, but she could still scream. Harry cast Furnunculus again, and took her vision from her. Blind, hindered, Bellatrix tried to flee, and Harry pursued.  
  
In her haste and confusion, she tripped over a bit of smashed something--so destroyed as to be no longer identifiable--and Harry stood over her, and raised his wand again.  
  
He paused. For just a breath, he paused, and then made up his mind, made his choice.  
  
"Crucio," he hissed, and did not regret it.  
  
At his feet, Bellatrix Lestrange writhed, screamed, whimpered. Her back arched and bent, her ragged fingernails clawed in vain at the marble floor and broke against it. Her nose bled, her eyes rolled, and still she screamed on.  
  
Harry released the spell.  
  
"Bravo, Harry," said a voice, slow and pleased behind him. Harry turned, and faced Voldemort without a word, leaving the woman broken where she lay.  
  
"Tom," said Harry, and was mildly pleased to see Voldemort's face twitch in anger. His rage was disappearing, and he'd gone quite numb. Shock, he realized in a vague sort of way. He was going into shock.  
  
But not yet, he thought. I can put it off till later. Not yet.  
  
"Do not presume to call me by that name, boy. I have made you what you are today! And I shall unmake you in the same way. Kneel before your betters, Harry, and accept death like a man!"  
  
Harry's face tightened, and the rage was rising up again. "Coward," he sneered. "Sending children to fetch that damn prophecy! Your own followers not good enough? Not up to the task, is that it?"  
  
Voldemort cast Silencio, and Harry flinched as it hit, expecting a different curse.  
  
"You are a fool, Harry Potter. But I knew that. A brave fool, but that could only be the case...after all, you are a Gryffindor. Allow me to show you what I have discovered about you tonight, and you will see that I am right, and that death is your only way out." Voldemort raised his wand, and drew closer, robes wafting like some deadening mist about his feet.  
  
Harry swallowed hard, prepared to run, but behind him Bellatrix had managed to get back to her feet, and was suddenly sinking her claws into his arms, holding him immobile, her wand to his neck. He had forgotten to disarm her.  
  
"Widdle baby's been naughty," she said, voice sharp and close in his ear. "Master," she said, her voice breathy as she looked towards Voldemort. "Let me punish him?"  
  
Voldemort shook his head, and Harry felt Bellatrix slump a bit in very real disappointment.  
  
"No, Harry is about to learn the errors of his ways, my Bella. I need him cognizant for that, and you have the tendency to rather damage your playthings, don't you?" He was smiling just slightly, and that smile pooled like icy water in Harry's gut. He far preferred Voldemort as the monologuing monster he'd been in the graveyard last year. This Voldemort had at least some of his old charisma back, if not his looks, and he most certainly remembered how to employ it.  
  
The man stepped forward, and almost gently placed his hands on either side of Harry's face. In the searing heat-pain of his touch, Harry lost track of Bellatrix's wand, lost all sense of the woman--there was nothing beyond himself, Voldemort, and the agony.  
  
And then there was a sweeping sensation, more pain, and Harry felt as if the sun had descended into the atmosphere to blister his very soul as the Dark Lord pressed deep into his mind and made Snape's legilimency seem delicate and gentle. Voldemort was like angry fire in his mind, and Harry was drowning as the Dark Lord poured knowledge of twisted things into Harry's head, and also a few short lines of that smashed prophecy. Those few lines were more than enough.  
  
Harry fell to his knees as Voldemort stepped away, and there were tears falling down his cheeks. Distantly, he could hear Voldemort laughing, could hear shouting and the crackle-scorch of spells burning through the air, but he could not bring himself to care. Someone was speaking to Harry, and he caught a hint of golden half-moon spectacles glinting like a snitch. A blur of lime green seemed to be blubbering something nearby.  
  
Harry saw these things, vaguely registered them and filed them away to study later, but at that instant the shock he'd put off took proper hold. He was cold, his hands shaking, and nothing seemed to matter in that numbness.  
  
Just one thought had managed to lodge itself. One thought amid the torrent.  
  
Voldemort had shown Harry what he knew of the prophecy, had shown him the night his parents had died. Like his dreams, it had been as if Harry himself were behind the murderous wand, as he slaughtered his own father and murdered his own mother, and then turned upon his infant self. It was ghastly and horrifying, but that was not what Harry found himself dwelling on.  
  
More than anything, Voldemort had done something no one else had ever bothered to do for Harry.  
  
He had given him reason. He had told Harry there was a reason he had sought the Potters, not just whim or fancy, but purpose.  
  
Harry let someone help him to a conjured stretcher, let them tuck a thick blanket swamped in warming and cheering charms around his shoulders, and take him...somewhere.  
  
He didn't care where.  
  
He had purpose, and Voldemort had given it to him as no one else had ever done. He had purpose. He had a duty. And he would do that duty if it killed him.


	2. Chapter 1

  
  
The fire in the Gryffindor common room crackled and snapped, and Harry leaned closer, not feeling how the heat scorched his skin, just knowing that he was cold, and knowing that fire was supposed to help. Neville sat nearby, Harry knew, just as quiet and withdrawn. Around them, the common room was deserted. Neither had spoken about what had happened at the Ministry, and it had been...three days now? Harry wasn't sure. Time didn't seem to be passing normally for him anymore, but he couldn't bring himself to be bothered.  
  
Ron was at St. Mungo's, Hermione confined to bed-rest in the hospital wing, and Harry was left with way more time on his hands than he needed, left to think dark thoughts about his own actions, and his inability to save Sirius.  
  
The logs shifted in the fireplace, sparks flying up, and one landed on Harry's hand.  
  
Sirius.  
  
Harry swallowed hard, losing himself again, and losing sense of time with his sense of self. The only adult who seemed to care at all for Harry—gone. The spark on his skin burned itself out. Harry shivered violently as the flames flared again. His skin was prickling in protest against the closeness of the fire, but Harry was icy and miserable, and couldn't seem to get warm.  
  
Shock, he decided. Could shock last for days? Had it only been days, or had it been longer?  
  
The hiss of rapidly evaporating moisture dodged in and out of Harry's hearing as the logs dried then began to burn. The hiss shifted in Harry's ears until he could almost make out words. Slurred, muted, unintelligible as the voices coming from the veil had been. Harry's jaw clenched, and he leaned forward even further, desperate to catch a word from those voices—one word that he could actually make out, and not just the mutterings as if from a madman in the next room.  
  
Harry put his face nearer and nearer the flames, and it was as if the searing heat of it couldn't touch his skin, because still Harry shivered, and still he kept trying to find words in the nonsense. If it meant being eaten by those flames, Harry thought it might be worth it, just to know what it was the voices kept saying just outside his hearing.  
  
Harry leaned still further.  
  
A sudden movement to his left. Harry was aware of Neville standing up, abruptly, and Harry pulled away from the fireplace. Neville had been around an awful lot these past few...hours? Or was it months, now? Since the Ministry, in any case. Harry suspected he was being taken care of, that Neville was afraid he'd cracked completely and was trying to piece him back together.  
  
“Harry,” said Neville, and his voice sounded as if it was coming from a great distance. “You'll set your robes on fire if you sit any closer. Come on, it's late...”  
  
Harry let Neville lead him to their dormitory, where Seamus and Dean were already long since asleep. Ron's empty bed mocked Harry, as if saying “look, you nearly got your friend killed” and the curtains swung in the slight breeze that made its way in through the open window.  
  
Harry's teeth were chattering, his limbs shaking with the cold, and burst blood vessels in his throat made the air taste like winter and iron. He couldn't seem to catch his breath.  
  
He fell onto his bed, pulling the blankets close about himself, and not even bothering to undress first. His clothes were at least warmed by body heat. He didn't want to face the chill of the room. Shivering, Harry slipped away into sleep.  


**HPHPHP**

  
Harry pulled his robes closer, fidgeting as he sat before Dumbledore's desk. The headmaster obviously wanted to talk to him about what had happened in the Department of Mysteries, about Harry's confrontation with Voldemort afterward. Harry was only glad that the Headmaster showed no sign of wanting to talk to him about Sirius...  
  
“I need to know what Tom said to you, Harry,” said Dumbledore, and Harry realized it was the second or third time he'd said it, that Harry had gone away again, lost track of the moment again.  
  
“Er, sorry,” he said. “He didn't say much, just...that I needed to learn the error of my ways...” He let his voice fade away.  
  
Dumbledore was still staring hard at him, as if willing Harry to tell him more, to let him in, tell him his secrets. Harry wasn't going to do that this time, no venting to the grandfatherly facade before him. The images and information Voldemort had deposited in his mind had been confused and chaotic, but Dumbledore's machinations were now painfully obvious. Harry couldn't believe he'd never before seen how much of a string-puller the “benign” headmaster was. He controlled...everything, Harry thought bitterly. From the time he had destroyed Grindlewald to the present, Dumbledore was worse than a politician. He had his fingers in everything. Harry supposed it was only lucky that Dumbledore had the good of the wizarding world in mind.  
  
“Harry, my boy, what did he do to you, there at the end? You were almost catatonic. I feared, for a moment, that he had left you permanently damaged.”  
  
“Like Bellatrix left Neville's parents!? Like she left Sirius?”  
  
Harry hadn't meant to say that. He put his hands up in apology. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...”  
  
Dumbledore was shaking his head, and for a second Harry forgot what would warrant such a response, momentarily forgetting his outburst as a wave of bone-freezing cold swept through him, as icy as Voldemort's presence had been scorching. He shook with the cold, and Dumbledore frowned.  
  
“Harry, perhaps you should return to the hospital wing after all...”  
  
Harry stood and left, and Dumbledore was left to deal with a growing worry, which gnawed, rodent-like, at the pit of his belly.  


**HPHPHP**

  
Hermione was out of the hospital wing. That knowledge made Harry wake up a bit from the numbness that seemed to have haunted him over the past week. School was almost out, and Harry couldn't remember if he'd even managed to attend a single class since the Ministry incident. He couldn't even remember how many times he'd made it to a meal, though he had a few fuzzy memories of Neville dragging him to and from the Great Hall. Luna, also, flitted in and out of his memories like the elusive moonbeams she was named for.  
  
He sat on the bank near the lake, the sun reflecting off the water back into his eyes, blinding him as he'd been blinded in the Atrium—  
  
Harry shook his head to clear the memories away, shivering in the cold of the day. Luna sat down next to him, draping her extremely long, multicoloured scarf over his shoulders and twice around his neck. He let the thick wool warm him, and mumbled a thank you. Neville came and sprawled out in the grass on his other side, his sleeves pushed up past his elbow, tie nowhere to be seen.  
  
“Hermione's wondering where you are, Harry,” he said. “She's camped out in the common room, taking it easy like Madam Pomfrey told her to, but she's worried about you.”  
  
“I nearly got her killed, Neville,” Harry said, and his voice sounded flat even to his own ears.  
  
“We followed you willingly, Harry. Our injuries are our own faults.”  
  
Harry shook his head, but Neville persisted.  
  
“No, Harry. You know you told us not to come, that it would be dangerous. We followed you because we had faith in you, and look: you faced down V-Voldemort and survived—again! That makes, what, four times now?”  
  
“Five,” Harry corrected, not really meaning to prove Neville's point. Neville, on the other hand seized this and ran with it.  
  
“Exactly,” he said, as if this settled things. It didn't, though. Not for Harry.  
  
“I got Sirius killed, Neville. He was the only person who...”  
  
“Stubby Boardman is the sort of man who would always come back to you, Harry. If he can find a way, he'll do it.”  
  
Harry turned to face Luna. Her large eyes were wide and earnest. The sun in its cloudless sky couldn't shine more brightly than her silvery blonde hair.  
  
Harry looked away again. Her faith in him was...terrifying. He knew—just knew in the whole of his being—that he couldn't live up to her expectations. He wasn't that good a person. He would let her down.  
  
He would let them all down.  
  
And there, as if over the trauma of a few days past, was Neville, lying flat on his back and using his robes for a pillow, the top two buttons of his uniform shirt undone and sweat beading slightly at his hairline. In sharp contrast to his relaxed posture, however, were his eyes, which were locked on Harry's face. He had an air of expectancy about him, like he was waiting for Harry to get it.  
  
Harry looked away, staring at his shoes. Slowly, not meeting either of their eyes, he pushed himself up off the ground and turned back towards the castle. “I should go sit with Hermione,” he said. “Besides, it's starting to rain.” He started the long trudge back up the hill towards the castle in the brightly burning sun, and didn't look back.  
  
He didn't see the worried look Neville and Luna shared.  


**HPHPHP**

  
Harry left Hermione, Ginny, and several other Gryffindors to make his way to the toilet as the Hogwarts Express trundled through the sun-touched Scottish glens. On his way back to their compartment, however, something caught hold of the back of his robes, yanking him hard through a doorway, and he was slammed into a wall. The air in his lungs burst free, and he gasped for oxygen and nearly couldn't dodge as a fist came flying towards his face.  
  
Gregory Goyle had one heavy hand around Harry's throat, constricting his airway, and the other pulled back to try for another punch.  
  
Adreneline came rushing in, and for the first time since the Ministry, Harry felt awake and aware, alert. He brought a knee up, hard, sharp, to connect with Goyle's groin. It struck with a dull thud and Goyle's face drained of all color. Harry managed to get his hand to his wand pocket as the much larger youth all but fell away. Vincent Crabbe also had his wand drawn, but Harry was by far the more experienced duelist. The disarming charm flew from his lips before Crabbe could raise his arm higher than his navel, and Harry reached out and caught the wand, and with a swish of his own had opened one of the train's windows and dropped the wand out, where it was lost in the swirling slipstream of air that cocooned the Hogwarts Express.  
  
Crabbe howled with rage, and charged Harry, head and shoulders down to aim for Harry's torso. A simple stupify felled him, made him collapse at Harry's feet.  
  
Not even sweating, Harry looked up and saw Draco Malfoy's pale, pointed face only yards away. Harry waited for Malfoy to make the first move. The other boy's expression clenched.  
  
“You'll pay for what you did to my father, Potter!” Malfoy was spitting with rage, his wand drawn and pointed straight at Harry's chest. The tip of it was waving from the tremors of rage wracking Malfoy's body. Harry stared for a moment, trying to figure out what he'd done to Malfoy's father, then blinked. He'd heard someone mention that Lucius Malfoy had been among those captured at the Ministry. A dark frown overtook his features.  
  
“Your father is a dirty Death Eater, Malfoy. He deserves Azkaban and worse!” Harry snarled, his rage rising.  
  
Malfoy's already pale face went whiter. “I'll kill you for that, you mudblood fucking pig,” he said, his voice deadly low. “No one deserves Azkaban!”  
  
Harry just sneered.  
  
It was too much for Malfoy, and he shot a dark scarlet hex at Harry. He dodged, and it smote a scorching burn into the wall of the compartment, inches from where Harry's right ear had been. Malfoy shot off another spell that Harry didn't recognize, but which was a vile looking shade of yellow. As Harry ducked, it just grazed the tips of his hair, and Harry could smell it burning. A quick Aquamenti put it out, but that was all Harry had time for, no chance to return fire, as Malfoy was suddenly scraping his wand through the air. Stark white sparks broke in the air as if he had struck metal, and Harry felt a searing pain across his side.  
  
He'd had enough.  
  
Harry dodged the next curse to come up and crowd Malfoy. Goyle was coming back to his senses and tried to grab his legs, but years of avoiding Dudley had made Harry far nimbler than that. He kicked Goyle in the face, and the other boy was out of the fight once more.  
  
Harry's wand flashed. “Rictusempra!” Harry cried, and he was too near for Malfoy to dodge. It hit with a splash of dim light against the other boy's chest. “Petrificus Totalus.”  
  
Distracted as he was by the tickling charm, the body-bind struck him with ease and Malfoy fell flat on his face, half on top of Goyle's prone form. Slowly, Harry rolled him over with his shoe and saw that Malfoy's eyes were wide and angry. Harry bent close to his face.  
  
“Your father gets off on torturing children, Malfoy. He's a slave to a madman, and you're going to grow up to be just like him. Blood will out,” he spat, voice bitter. “You'll meet the same sticky end as him, Malfoy. Bowing and scraping to a lunatic, and eventually you'll lose your soul for him too.”  
  
He stood back up, took a few steps away, then turned and left the three Slytherins lying there as he left the compartment and went back to his friends. Hermione would know a charm to fix his aching side. He didn't even look back.  


**HPHPHP**

  
By the time Harry made his way back to the compartment where his friends sat, the wound on his side had bled through his uniform shirt. It was just as well, Harry decided, that he hadn't changed into his muggle clothing yet. The uniform shirt was one that had gotten a bit short in the sleeves anyway, but he had so few decent clothes that he was still upset at its loss.  
  
Harry slid the door open and Hermione cried out at the sight of him.  
  
“Oh, Harry, what happened?! You had a run in with Malfoy, didn't you?”  
  
Harry winced as she pulled him in and made him sit, and nodded. “I won,” he said tiredly.  
  
Hermione helped him pull his robes off and lifted the hem of his shirt. The rest of the compartment made sounds of sympathy.  
  
“What did he cast?” asked Neville, who had stood and was pulling down his satchel from the overhead storage.  
  
“Dunno,” said Harry. Neville handed a small jar to Hermione who quickly unscrewed it. The too familiar smell of Murtlap accosted Harry's nose, and he drew back in distaste. He'd smelled quite enough of that to last him a lifetime.  
  
Hermione looked up at Neville in surprise. “You made a salve out of it?”  
  
“Seemed more practical,” he said. “some wounds aren't placed well to soak, after all, and a salve can be wrapped up beneath bandages if needed.”  
  
“And it's easier to carry around,” Hermione said thoughtfully. She turned to Harry. “Do you want to do it, or shall I?” she asked quietly, the jar extended to within Harry's reach. He hesitated, then dipped his fingers into the jar. It was much thicker than the stuff he had used to soak his hand.  
  
Harry's stomach twisted. It was sound reasoning—it really was—it just hurt to realize that his actions had caused his friends to think like soldiers.  
  
As he spread the murtlap salve across the wound it stung and smoked, cleaning the wound, and as he watched it was almost as if white sparks were peeling away and disappearing before they could hit the ground, sizzling in mid-air.  
  
“Episky,” said Hermione, and Harry was suddenly awakened to the fact that he been very lost in thought for several minutes. The wound on his side knit itself back together before his eyes.

“Didn't know you knew any healing spells,” he said. Hermione gave him a wry grin and a shrug.  
  
“You know me,” she said. “I got bored in the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey let me read through some of her books while I was healing.”  
  
Harry grinned at her. “Good thing, too,” he said. He eyed the quickly drying bloodstain. “Shame about my shirt, though.”  
  
“May I?” asked Ginny. Harry shook his head, and the girl pointed her wand. “Scourgify,” she said. The stain lightened a bit, but not completely. “Hm, suppose you're right,” she said ruefully. “Sorry, Harry. Looks like this might be the end of the line for that shirt.”  
  
“Well,” he said. “it's nearly time to change, anyway. Suppose I may as well just change early.”  


**HPHPHP**

  
The Hogwarts express pulled up to the station at Kings Cross with the simple fanfare of the the setting sun's scorching touch on the back of the steam engine. The steam released with a hiss and whistle as the students disembarked, the bitter tang of the coal burning in the air. Harry—along with Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Luna—fought his way through the mass of students to the wall of the platform to where Mrs. Weasley was waiting, an expression of impatience and worry etched into her face.  
  
“There you are!” she said, and swept Ginny into a brisk hug. “Oh, Harry, dear, you're looking much better. And you too, Hermione. All healed up, then?”  
  
“We're fine,” they both answered. “How's Ron?” asked Hermione anxiously.  
  
“Much better,” said Mrs. Weasley, but Harry could see the strain in her face, telling him that “better” didn't mean “well”.  
  
Hermione nodded as Harry waved to Neville, who was being lead off by his grandmother, and to Luna who seemed perfectly willing to be swept off by the tide of students eager to get on with their summer holidays. As they stepped through the barrier, Harry could not stifle the feeling of apprehension that trickled through his veins as he looked about for some sight of his relatives. Instead, he saw three people he hadn't expected. Standing there, obviously waiting for them, were Mad-Eye Moody, Tonks, and Professor Lupin. Moody had a hat pulled low over his magical eye, and looked highly suspect with the collar on his jacket up about his face, presumably to help hide his many scars.  
  
Hermione caught sight of them as well, and stared, glancing back to Harry in concern.  
  
“Molly, you go ahead and take Ginny back to Headquarters,” growled Mad-Eye Moody. He was standing close enough that Harry could look up and see the magical eye roving about in its socket. “We'll make sure Potter and Granger meet up with their guardians the way they ought.”  
  
Mrs. Weasley looked as if she was about to protest, but Professor Lupin gave her his usual wan smile. “Professor Dumbledore's orders, Molly,” he said.  
  
Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips, obviously not happy with the situation. “Well, if you're sure... Harry, Hermione, I'm sure you'll both be able to come to headquarters over the summer if you'd like to,” she said. They both nodded, and Mrs. Weasley pulled them both into a hug before heading off into the bustling populace of King's Cross with a parting, “Have a good summer, dears!”  
  
Ginny gave them each a hug as well, and followed her mother into the crowd.  
  
Hermione and Harry stood quietly, flanked by Order members, and trying not to look as conspicuous as their companions. Only Professor Lupin appeared to have any real idea about how muggles dressed. Moody looked like he'd stepped out of some detective drama, his hat pulled low like that, and Tonks' clothes were better suited to some wild club than walking about in daytime London.  
  
For that matter, Harry realized, he didn't look particularly well suited to Kings Cross, either, with his massively oversized jumper, and his shoes full of holes. Only Hermione, with her neat skirt and stylish jacket, looked as if she belonged.  
  
Just then, as Harry was silently contrasting the two of them, her face brightened. “There are my parents!” she said. She gave Harry a quick kiss on the cheek and a hug, waved to the three adults, and dragged her trunk off towards her parents.  
  
Harry watched them disappear from view and turned to look at the Order members. Despite what they might say, and despite the fact that Hermione had indeed been reunited with her parents while under their watchful gazes, they were really just there for Harry. Though Moody and Tonks were both gazing about the crowd, no doubt scanning it for Uncle Vernon's walrus-like mustache, Harry was startled to find Professor Lupin's eyes locked on him.  
  
Harry stared back.  
  
“Sorry,” said Lupin after an awkward pause. “It's just...good to see you're alright.”  
  
Harry felt his face heat as he realized he hadn't thought about Lupin at all since that night at the Ministry. This man had been the first to really take time to teach Harry how to take care of himself, who had made sure Harry wasn't helpless, and Harry had simply...forgotten about him. He was suddenly ashamed of himself in a way he had never been before.  
  
“Yeah,” he said in response. “Yeah, I'm...doing better. Are you...?”  
  
“Oh, yes. Fine. Well, not fine. But okay.” said Lupin. There was another long pause as they stared at each other, neither sure what to say, and neither noticing that both Moody and Tonks had drawn away to allow them some privacy.  
  
Finally, just when the silence was becoming unbearable, Lupin spoke again.  
  
“I thought I was going to lose you, too,” he said, voice shaking. “I saw Sirius go through...that thing. And then you just charged in after him, and I thought, 'I'm going to lose them both,' and so I grabbed you before you could go through, too.”  
  
Harry stared at him, unaware that he meant so much to his former professor that the fear of losing him to the Veil was great enough that he would risk himself to save Harry. He hadn't known he meant that much to anyone. “I'm sorry,” he said, voice shaking.  
  
Lupin grabbed his shoulders. “No, Harry. No. I'm sorry. I should have found a way to make Sirius stay home...but I've never been good at controlling him. That was always your father's job, back in school. I'm afraid I never improved with age, and neither did Sirius. I think you'll find that many of the adults who fought in the last war are...stunted, in some way. We were denied our youths, many of us, and others lost so much they became emotionally stunted in other ways. I don't want that for you and your friends.”  
  
“I think it might be too late,” muttered Harry, not meeting Lupin's eyes.  
  
“It's not,” said Lupin. “You have a large part to play in this war, Harry, I can't deny that and neither can you. But you still have years before you'll have to face Voldemort, and in that time I expect you to take care of yourself, enjoy yourself. No more charging off after the adults. It's not your job to protect us, but the other way around.”  
  
Harry stared at his shoes. “I thought...I thought I could catch him before he went through,” he admitted. “But I couldn't. I don't think he was even there. I couldn't see him, anyway, just mist and light, and then I could feel you pulling me back.”  
  
Lupin's expression, when Harry looked back up, was one of horror. “You remember the other side?” he asked, voice strained.  
  
Harry shrugged, discomforted by Lupin's reaction. “A bit. Not much. The whole rest of that night is...blurred.” And that was a lie, really. It was the days after that night that were blurred and unfocused. The rest of that night kept returning to him in vivid relief, sharp and painfully clear in his memory. He remembered the rush of casting Crucio on Bellatrix Lestrange, the breathtaking lack of remorse. And even in those moments of vivid memory, the only guilt Harry feels is at the fact that he felt no guilt at all.  
  
“Madame Pomfrey looked you over thoroughly, though, right?” Lupin's voice cracked and he appeared to be looking Harry over for open wounds.  
  
Good thing he didn't see me an hour ago, Harry thought. He'd have panicked outright.  
  
“She did,” he said aloud. “Said I was fine, physically. I'm just...”  
  
He and Lupin shared an expression of regret, sadness, a whole host of emotions that Harry recognized in Lupin but could not name in himself.  
  
“Your uncle's here, Harry,” muttered Tonks, and Harry jumped, having forgotten she was even there. He looked where she was, and sure enough, his uncle was approaching. His face was beet red, probably because Harry was so obviously associating with people the Dursley's would classify as “freaks”.  
  
“Boy!” his uncle snarled. Harry winced despite himself, and was more relieved than he thought he had a right to be when Moody stepped between him and his uncle. Uncle Vernon faltered visibly as he caught sight of Moody's electric blue eye.  
  
“We're just here to give you a quick warning, Dursley, before you take Harry home for the summer,” said Moody, his voice low and dangerous. Over his shoulder, Tonks was grinning fiendishly.  
  
Lupin had a hand on Harry's shoulder as he stepped forward. “Harry's had a bit of a rough year,” he said, voice mild as always. “And you're not going to make it any rougher for him. If you try, we will know about it.”  
  
“We'll be watching, you see,” said Tonks.  
  
Uncle Vernon stuttered and grew more and more purple in the face, but Harry saw his eyes dart around, take in the crowds of people making their way about the station, and recognized the moment when Uncle Vernon decided that yelling would only draw negative attention to himself. He saw the gleam in his uncle's eye that said the yelling could wait until Harry was safely behind the closed door of Number Four, away from the prying eyes of strangers.  
  
Harry felt as if the ground were pulling away from beneath his feet. His knees shook, and he didn't even realize that they had buckled when Professor Lupin had put a firm hand under his elbow, keeping him standing. His teeth were chattering and he couldn't feel his fingers.  
  
“Steady there, Harry,” said Lupin in a voice quiet enough that his uncle wouldn't hear, his eyes still locked on Uncle Vernon's.  
  
Uncle Vernon himself was staring at Mad-Eye Moody as if he didn't dare look away. “The boy had best behave himself, then!” snarled Uncle Vernon. “I'll not have any business like...like those domanter things from last summer.”  
  
“Believe me, we have no intention of letting anything like that happen again,” said Lupin. He released Harry's elbow and put both hands on the trolley handle. “If you'll show me to your vehicle, I'd be glad to help Harry load his possessions.”  
  
Though Uncle Vernon sputtered and tried to protest, Professor Lupin wouldn't take no for an answer. He had already started wheeling Harry's trunk towards the carpark before either Uncle Vernon or Harry realized what he was doing. Uncle Vernon went after him immediately, trying to forestall any sort of “freakishness” that Lupin might do to his car, and Harry—after a quick wave to Mad-Eye Moody and Tonks—went after to serve as a witness should Uncle Vernon really lose his temper.  
  
Harry's trunk was stowed away in the boot without any additional fuss, however, and Hedwig's cage put carefully into the rear seat. Harry turned to face Professor Lupin, and their faces were equally grim.  
  
“Take care of yourself, Harry,” said Lupin, the look he gave Harry implying that he expected Harry to go out and disobey at the earliest opportunity.  
  
Harry grimaced. “You too,” he said. “Don't...don't take too many chances, not even for the Order.”  
  
“I'll write regularly,” said Lupin, which wasn't a promise but an avoidance, and with his voice pitched to carry easily to Uncle Vernon's flinching ear. “We'll expect owls at least every other day to make sure you're doing alright.”  
  
“I'll be fine, Professor,” said Harry. He was proud that his uncertainties didn't air themselves for all the world to see.  
  
Another awkward pause—they seemed to spawn especially for Lupin and Harry—and then Harry's former professor was putting his arms around Harry in an uncomfortable hug. Harry returned it, shivering and unnerved, but not willing to sacrifice this last chance at human contact for the remainder of the summer.  
  
With a final goodbye, Harry got into the car where Uncle Vernon was already waiting, and they drove away quickly.  
  
Harry forced himself to not look back as his father's last friend faded into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'm planning on posting mostly on Mondays or Tuesdays, but with how short the prologue is, I thought I ought to add this sooner? Anyway, feel free to leave comments, I don't bite! <3


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home for the summer, and nothing ever goes right for Harry.

Harry's instincts, as usual, were spot on.  
  
Uncle Vernon waited until they were back within the walls of Number Four before he let loose, screaming and spitting, with Harry backed against the wall in the entry-way. His uncle was so furious that Harry didn't catch much beyond “freaks like you,” “in public,” “Rough year, I'll show you a bloody rough _summer!_ ” and much more shouting and sputtering that seemed to be in no discernible human language at all. Harry let his uncle scream, drowning him out by reciting Quidditch manoeuvres in his head until he at last heard the words he'd been waiting for: Go. Room. Now.  
  
Harry went.  
  
And, remarkably, that was all Harry heard on the subject for several days. Uncle Vernon went to work, came home, ate dinner, watched telly, and went to bed as if the whole thing had never happened, though occasionally he would send an especially nasty glance Harry's way, or demand some particularly dirty chore be done. Aunt Petunia, too, did little more than putter about the house as if Harry didn't exist, giving him mainly outdoors work to be done, so as to avoid him more thoroughly. Dudley even seemed almost...well, not friendly. Harry wasn't sure Dudley knew _how_ to be friendly. But he was certainly less antagonistic. Harry was essentially left to his own devices, and he sent off regular correspondence to the Order and his friends. Ron was well enough to write short notes back, and Ginny had sent a longer note along once, which was nice, he supposed. Hermione was nearly back to normal, and was spending copious amounts of time in the magical section of the Kensington Library, apparently already hard at work on summer homework. Except for that first night back, the summer started very quietly and unassumingly.  
  
Altogether, Harry ought to have known that—eventually—things would have to come to a head. Peace and quiet at Number Four was never more than an illusion.  
  
Harry had spent the morning in the summer sun, working hard to get the front gardens respectable again after their school-year-long neglect. He was dressed in his usual baggy jeans and a shirt with sleeves much too long for his arms. Normally Harry rolled them up as far as they would go, but he wasn't feeling quite right that morning, and suspected he might be getting sick, because despite the sun he was feeling very cool and more than a little bit shaky. He stepped into the house to get a glass of water and, it being a Saturday, was confronted by a red-faced Uncle Vernon.  
  
"You bloody broke the air conditioning, didn't you, boy!" snarled his uncle. Harry carefully put his glass down on the counter and turned to look at his uncle full on.  
  
"I wouldn't," he said, trying to keep it simple for his uncle.  
  
"Don't you lie," snapped Uncle Vernon. "I know you did something freakish to it! Look at you, dressed like it's autumn when any decent person would be sweltering in this heat! You've magicked it broken, I just know it! Now put it right!"  
  
Harry took a very deep breath, fighting the impulse to yell at his uncle. It never did any good, anyway. "Uncle Vernon, I didn't do anything to the air conditioning, I promise. I can't do magic outside of school, anyway," he said.  
  
"Didn't stop you last summer. Or three summers ago. Or the one before that!" Already red from the heat, Uncle Vernon had quickly turned an awful shade of mulberry with anger and frustration.  
  
Harry's teeth grated, and he was cold to his bones despite Uncle Vernon's complaints about the warmth. Harry agreed, the air conditioner might very well be broken—stuck on high. He was shivering even as Uncle Vernon sweated.  
  
"I wouldn't touch it, Uncle Vernon. I promise. I'll just get back to gardening then, shall I?"  
  
His uncle grabbed him. Harry gaped and fought to get free, not sure if he could remember his uncle ever physically manhandling him before. Once or twice crossed his mind when he thought about it, but mostly Uncle Vernon was all about bluster and yelling.  
  
The small of Harry's back was pressed into the edge of the counter, and somewhere near his elbow his glass of water cracked with a sharp sound. Harry swallowed, recognizing the swell and burst of accidental magic when it happened. He had to keep calm. He really couldn't afford any more negative attention from the Ministry of Magic.  
  
"You. Put. It. Right. This weather is unnatural, it is!" The sweat from his uncle's forehead dripped down onto Harry's face as Vernon leaned in close, hand around Harry's throat, the other busily jabbing a finger deep into Harry's chest. Harry gasped for air, his fingers trying to pry Vernon's hand away, but his eyes were growing hazy from lack of oxygen.  
  
Another crack, this one louder. Somewhere towards the floor there was a groaning sound, a creak, and then strange popping and screeching, and a torrent of water burst from under the sink, chunks of ice tearing their way through the pipes. Upstairs, Aunt Petunia screamed.  
  
Harry wasn't sure where the noise was coming from, but there was a great rushing sound like strong wind, or ocean waves, and his sight seemed to be swimming and he couldn't draw breath. Uncle Vernon's hand was no longer around his throat, but he couldn't seem to find air. It was as if he was underwater, but the water was made of nothingness, a vacuum filled with fire and ice and the vacuum was inside his own skin.  
  
Harry shook, felt the floor beneath his face and didn't know how he had fallen or when.  
  
Water rushed beneath his cheek, and swept broken glass past as well. Harry couldn't remember any of the windows breaking, but that was the stained glass from the little window at the top of the door. Time was doing strange things again, as it had done immediately after the Department of Mysteries. Harry pushed himself to his knees, ignoring the way the icy water soaked his jeans. He saw his uncle as if from a great distance, screaming and waving his arms—yelling, though the words weren't forming properly in Harry's ears—and his aunt, just coming down the stairs, her clothing as sopping wet as the entirety of the kitchen.  
  
Harry got to his feet and went to his room.

**HPHPHP**

  
It was several hours before the Dursleys managed to sort themselves out. The Accidental Magic Reversal Squad never arrived, so Harry supposed it must have actually been something wrong with the pipes...though that didn't explain the broken windows, or how the pipes had iced over in July...He supposed stranger things had happened. He stayed upstairs, out of the way as a plumber came to inspect the damage. Eventually his aunt made her way to his room, told him that he wouldn't eat under her roof again unless he could fix whatever it was he had done. She wouldn't listen when he told her he didn't think he'd done it this time. With a sigh, Harry had given up, and resigned himself to sneaking food for the rest of the summer, but she'd dashed that plan almost immediately.  
  
"We'll be going to Majorca," she had said, and Harry had perked up. He knew his aunt had a friend there, but he'd never been. She had dashed that small hope with equal finality. "You, on the other hand," she had sneered, "will be going to stay with your Aunt Marge. She's been saying for months that she could use a hand with her dogs, and she'll see to it that you're suitably punished for...today's disaster."  
  
And she'd left Harry's doorway with that, leaving him to stew in his own misery until morning, when everyone would be packed up and gone. Harry had sent a quick message with Hedwig, and given the owl instructions to stay put when she arrived at Headquarters. He didn't trust any of Aunt Marge's dogs around Hedwig, but least of all that hellion she doted on so much, Ripper. In fact, he'd put money on Aunt Marge helping her dogs get to Hedwig, given half the chance. Far safer for Hedwig to just stay clear of Aunt Marge altogether.  
  


Harry stared around his room for a while, trying to decide what sorts of things it would be safe to bring with him to Aunt Marge's, because along with Hedwig's safety, he also didn't trust her to not go through his things, which meant all of his school stuff needed to be stowed for the summer. He didn't know if he'd be back to Number Four before September first, either, which complicated matters.

 

In the end he wound up throwing some of his better muggle clothes into his book bag and all of his Hogwarts things except for his wand and invisibility cloak stayed in his school trunk. He decided Headquarters was the safest place for his things, and thought he knew how to get them there without making it obvious to his relatives what he was doing. So, while the Dursleys were busy packing, he walked his trunk over to Mrs Figg's house.

 

“Sorry,” said Harry when she opened the door. “but I was hoping you could get this to either the Weasleys or Professor Dumbledore.”

 

“Of course, dear...not problems with your family, I hope?” asked Mrs Figg, peering at him closely, one of her many cats sneaking past her ankles to explore the front garden.

 

Harry shook his head. “No, but some plumbing problems. I'm going to be staying with my uncle's sister for a bit, and she doesn't know about Hogwarts, or magic. Best to keep it that way, I thought.”

 

“Mm, quite right, too,” said Mrs Figg. “Certainly, I'll see that this gets to the right people, Harry. Won't you come in for some tea?”

 

There really wasn't a polite way to refuse, so Harry found himself sitting in Mrs Figg's kitchen sipping a cuppa and petting the new kitten (and the calico that had decided to sit in his lap, and the orange striped that kept rubbing up against his legs), and hearing all about the old cats, some of which he actually remembered, and some of which were long before his time. By the time he managed to escape polite small-talk it was early evening, the street lights due to come on at any time.

 

Nearing Number Four, Harry saw that Mrs Number Seven was standing in the driveway talking with Aunt Petunia. They both saw Harry at the same moment, and the woman said something to Harry's aunt, putting a hand on her bony shoulder in what appeared to be a comforting gesture. His aunt nodded, and went back into the house. As Harry passed by, Mrs Number Seven leaned towards him and sneered.

 

“You're lucky your aunt and uncle are such good people!” she snapped. “If you'd vandalized _my_ pipes, you'd have been out on your ear faster than you could blink!”

 

Harry stood and stared after her, mouth open and slack, as she swept off down the drive back towards her own home.

 

So that's what his relatives had decided to tell the neighbourhood? That Harry had destroyed their plumbing? It was disturbingly close to the truth, unfortunately, so Harry couldn't really even contest it. He glanced towards the front window, and saw his aunt watching him through the curtains. When she saw him looking she pulled away abruptly, as if embarrassed to be caught.

 

She should be ashamed, Harry thought with a sharp stab of bitter resentment. They treat me like dirt, then pretend _I'm_ the bad one, the trouble maker, and everyone just goes along with it, despite it having been Dudley who's menaced the entire neighbourhood since he could first ride a bike.

 

He went the rest of the way to the front door trying to pretend he'd never even seen the woman from Number Seven, and failing miserably. He spent the rest of the evening in his room pulling a small part of his book bag's liner away from the outer layer so he could slip the invisibility cloak and his wand into the space left between the two layers. He made sure the handle end of his wand was easily accessible; a bit of Moody's healthy paranoia manifesting itself.

 

Worry about staying with his uncle's sister made him sleep poorly, and when his aunt pounded on his door the next morning Harry felt as if he hadn't gotten any sleep at all. He was sore from tossing and turning all night long and groggy as he climbed into the car the next morning, his bag on his lap. None of the Dursleys were much inclined to talk to him, so he wound up dozing most of the way there, wrapped up in his jacket. Maybe it was punishment for his supposed destruction of the air conditioner in Number Four, but his uncle seemed to have turned the air in the car up to a truly unbearable level of cold, to the point where Harry couldn't stop his teeth chattering.

 

It took all day, but by evening they were pulling into Aunt Marge's driveway, and Harry's stomach was twisting with nerves (and hunger—Aunt Petunia had been as good as word, and Harry hadn't been given anything when they'd stopped for lunch). Uncle Vernon didn't even turn off the car, just twisted in his seat to snarl at Harry to his face.

 

“Out!”

 

Harry got out. He kept a tight grip on his book bag as he looked around. He'd let the Order know that he was going to be away from Number Four, he could only hope that they'd been able to find Aunt Marge's house all right, that they were somewhere nearby still keeping an eye on him. He wasn't exactly _afraid_ , but it definitely helped to know someone was nearby...just in case.

 

Aunt Marge didn't even come to the door when he knocked, just yelled at him to come in. Harry had only been to visit Marge Dursley once, but her house didn't look as if it had changed at all. The scent of stale dog pee burned his nose until he was choking on coughs. Holding his bag closer, he peered around the corner into the sitting room where Aunt Marge was sitting watching some typical daytime television show, about some woman wearing too much make-up apparently giving birth to twins in the back of a car after some sort of awful auto mobile accident... Harry tore his eyes away from the drivel to find his aunt looking at him with an expression of greatest disgust, her lap buried beneath several bulldogs.

 

“Well. Your uncle told me what you did to his pipes, boy, and to his air conditioning. I won't be risking any of that nonsense in _this_ house, let me tell you! There's a cot in the garden shed. You'll be sleeping there.”

 

Harry stared, her words not connecting with certain important cognitive centres in his brain.

 

“Go on, then!” she snapped, and waved a large hand towards the back door. Harry jumped as her voice rose, and he had to step over the five or six other dogs that ran back and forth across the carpet as he moved to obey. More than once he had to stop and shake a growling dog off his trouser leg, but eventually he made his way through the sitting room and kitchen, and out the back door. There was a large kennel, filled with even more bulldogs, and a smaller shed that Harry assumed was the one Aunt Marge had meant.

 

He crossed the yard to the shed, the dogs all yapping and barking at him as he passed. He pushed the door open, and was instantly assaulted by the smell of muggy warmth, dry dog food, and chemical fertilizer. The cot Aunt Marge had mentioned was shoved up on a shelf, covered in cobwebs, but at least the shed was bigger than his cupboard had been.

 

Harry pulled the cot down, stretched it out, and found that mice had chewed several holes through it. Nevertheless, he cleared out a corner, pushing the massive dog food bags to the opposite side of the shed, and put his bag on top of the cheap stretched canvas surface of the bed, determined to not feel put out by the unfairness of the situation.

 

Still, it rankled, and Harry could not entirely smother the acidic pool that felt like it was gathering in his belly. He took just a few minutes to sit down on the cot, his face in his palms, fingers tangled in his hair. A few deep, calming breaths, and Harry had himself steeled to go back into his aunt's house and find out just what sort of work she'd be having him do all summer.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Nasty, dirty, smelly work, it turned out. Not that Harry was surprised. She thought he'd vandalized her brother's house, after all, and the Dursleys had definitely meant for her to punish him, but the degree to which she took things surprised even Harry, and he'd grown up under _Uncle Vernon's_ roof of all places. He hadn't thought he could be surprised by the cruelty of normal people. Voldemort's certainly didn't surprise him.

 

All day long, though, Aunt Marge made Harry pick up dog poop from the kennel yard, take the vicious animals on walks, carry heavy bags of dog food in and out of the shed as she changed her mind repeatedly about where it was best to store it. She worked him from dawn to sunset every day, leaving him so exhausted that he slept like the dead, despite the lumpy, uncomfortable military cot. After the first few nights, he even stopped noticing the constant baying of her dogs, though he couldn't imagine why her neighbours never complained about the noise. It was incessant, and occurred at all hours, yet during his first two weeks there he never saw any of the neighbours come over to say anything about it. It made him feel a touch guilty about finding it annoying, in fact, and he endeavoured to ignore it better, himself.

 

Two weeks of shovelling dog poop was certainly enough to put anyone into a bad mood, and Harry was no exception. As he managed to avoid his aunt as much as he could, he never took his rapidly worsening emotions out on her, but in many ways it was as if some sort of shadow was hanging over Harry, darkening everything around him. With no one but his Aunt Marge and her ill-tempered dogs for company, he became withdrawn and depressed. The dogs—at first as vicious and antagonistic towards him as they were towards everyone—began to steer clear of him as he cleaned their cages each day, as if sensing his resentment. And they never _shut up._ The only time they were silent, apparently, was when Harry was nearby, but as soon as he turned his back, they started barking and howling again. If it wasn't Aunt Marge's dogs, then it was the rest of the dogs in the neighbourhood, barking always just around the corner. Harry thought for sure that he was being driven slowly mad.

 

It would serve Dumbledore right, he thought, if he just sat back and let the madness come.

 

To make matters worse (and Harry wouldn't have thought that possible, but if he was used to anything, it was disappointment), Harry's cold hadn't gone away. Though the shed he slept in ought to have been unbearably warm in the July heat, Harry went to bed every night shaking with cold, and tossing and turning until late hours because Aunt Marge apparently lived in Britain's most prominent dog-loving community. Every house on her street must have a dog, the racket they kept up!

 

Maybe it was the combination of being sick, the constant barking, and the unsettling sense of foreboding that plagued him that made Harry increasingly paranoid as his birthday approached. It would be just like Voldemort to plan something for Harry's birthday. Maybe it was because he felt like death warmed over every morning that he kept thinking he was seeing things, little things, just fluttering in the corners of his eyes. Harry had begun having strange, vivid dreams...but then he'd always had vivid dreams. It was just that the new dreams were unlike any he'd had before. The sense of being lost in a forest, a flash of antlers in the corner of his eye, the sound of crows, and an unnatural stillness followed him from sleep to wakefulness, until it was all Harry could do to not glance continually over his shoulder in searching for stray stags.

 

Just two days before his birthday Aunt Marge announced that she'd be going out of town for a few days, and that Harry had best take perfect care of her precious dogs while she was away, or he'd have it when she got back. Harry nodded, and was privately relieved that he wouldn't have to play slave to his aunt on his birthday.

 

She left early the next morning, and Harry was able to spend the rest of the day in relative peace, watching a few films on television, and despite feeling worn down and sick he made himself a decent lunch and a better dinner, and only dealt with the dogs when it was time for them to be fed and watered. Aunt Marge had left Ripper with strict instructions as to his care, which Harry blatantly ignored. Ripper spent most of the day locked in Aunt Marge's bedroom, in fact, and after several hours he even stopped barking.

 

Of course, then the dogs started up outside the house, but Harry just turned up the volume on the television and pretended he couldn't hear them.

 

It would have been a perfect afternoon, if only Harry hadn't felt so odd, so worn down. The sense of foreboding had been growing slowly over the course of the week, and even though he had turned the air conditioning off, Harry couldn't seem to bring his temperature up to anything resembling comfortable. He spent the day wrapped up in a thick blanket in front of the telly, twitching at every noise from outside, every car that passed on the road, and reassuring himself that if Voldemort hadn't been able to find him at the home of his mother's _sister_ , he surely wouldn't find him at the home of his mother's sister's husband's sister, and tried to believe himself on that score.

 

Eventually, the steady laugh track of some sitcom relaxed him enough that he slipped away into sleep, despite the early hour. As his breathing faded, a stillness crept over the whole house, but Harry was dead to the world, and never noticed as outside the howling of the dogs increased in urgency and pitch.

 

It was shortly before eleven o'clock when the barking finally stopped. With a gasp, Harry sat straight up, and immediately wished he hadn't.

 

Less than two feet from him stood a dementor, its hands on its hood as it pulled it back up to cover its scabby, eyeless face. It paused, as if suddenly distracted, and for a long second Harry and the dementor just stared at each other. Harry couldn't breathe. He'd been so cold before he'd fallen asleep that he hadn't even noticed the cold of the dementor until it was within a meter of him.

 

Instinct kicked in as the dementor moved closer. Harry reached for his wand—only to realize it wasn't with him. He'd left it in the shed, still tucked into the lining of his book bag.

 

Harry went pale, and launched himself over the back of the divan, breaking into a run for the back door as soon as he regained his feet.

 

The dementor gave chase, gliding over the sofa with ease and the deadly patience of a shark. Harry scrabbled for the doorknob by the dim light of distant street lamps through the kitchen window and finally it burst open more due to accidental magic than because he'd actually had his hand anywhere near the knob. The Order had to be right around the corner, right? On their way, right? This couldn't possibly be happening two years in a row!

 

As Harry tore through the door into the backyard, he felt his heart stop with a lurch. Eight more dementors floated at the perimeter of his aunt's property. If the Order _was_ out there, they would have a hard time getting near enough to help him now.

 

Not the Ministry, then, Harry thought. Voldemort? For some reason, Harry didn't think so. It was far more likely to have something to do with the strange dream he'd been having before the dementor had woken him.

 

One of the dogs had gotten loose from the kennel and came racing towards Harry as he finally started moving again, no longer paralysed with fear. It grabbed hold of Harry's jeans, tugging and growling low. He shook the dog off his leg, trying to focus, trying to find the shed in the dark.

 

 _The shed,_ he told himself again and again. _Get to the shed. Get to the wand. Escape. Run!_

 

He did, and tried not to see as the dementors turned towards him. They had no need of sight. They knew where he was by the scent of his soul alone. Harry could feel the icy stab of panic as he broke away from the back stoop. He wasn't sure if the ice was all illusionary, either, or if it meant the dementor from the sitting room had caught up with him. He ran, veering away from the kennel, away from two more dementors as they swept after him. The dog ran alongside him the length of the yard, no longer apparently worried about Harry, and far more concerned with hiding.

 

Hiding. As if one could hide from a dementor. They weren't fooled by illusions, nor by disguises. They followed a person by their soul, and there was no changing that, no hiding that. Harry would _not_ let them have _his._ He didn't know it for sure, there was no way to prove such a thing, but he believed that should he fall victim to the dementors and their kiss, he would never see his parents again, not even in death. He would never see Sirius again.

 

Harry couldn't let that happen.

 

 _Couldn't_.

 

He all but ran into the side of the shed, and in the dim moonlight he found the door, pulling it open. He nearly tripped over a bag of dog food as he raced towards the back of the building towards his bed.

 

 _Can't get trapped, can't get trapped, can't get trapped..._ It was like a mantra, the only words that were making sense. _Can't get trapped. Where—?_

 

There. Harry found his bag just where he'd left it on the cot, and began feeling for the slit he'd made in the lining. The dog had followed him into the shed and was standing, fur raised, facing the door. Harry spared it a second glance as he realized it wasn't one of Aunt Marge's pure-bred bulldogs, but rather some sort of hound, pale grey with darker ears and paws. It felt like an eternity in which there was nothing but icy sweat, sharp breathing, and the sensation of being just about to pass out, when his fingers finally slipped into the hole and Harry felt his wand hilt. He pulled it out, eyes on the doorway as the grass just outside began to frost over. The dementors were converging on the shed. Harry reached for the invisibility cloak, freeing it with a tug.

 

One skeletal hand, malformed and infectious looking, reached around the door frame.

 

Time slowed down as Harry levelled his wand.

 

Dark as thunderclouds, the dementors filled the doorway.

 

“ _Expecto Patronum!”_ Harry yelled, groping for some happy memory...but they all seemed to involve Sirius, and now they were all tainted. His wand spat pale silver mist, and nothing more.

 

It was so much worse than facing Voldemort, so much more terrifying. Voldemort, at least, had been a man once. The first dementor pushed into the shed, emboldened by Harry's failure, and Harry stepped back, nearly tripping on the dog. In defiance of common sense, the dog stepped forward, teeth barred, hackles raised, and snarling fit to frighten Fluffy.

 

 _Happy memories,_ Harry thought desperately, panicking. _What are my happiest memories?_

 

Sirius, singing as he decorated Grimmauld Place for Christmas last year—he'd never do that again.

 

Sirius insulting Snape, and not chastising Harry for doing the same—he'd never call the Potions Master “Snivellus” again.

 

Flying! Harry thought, grasping at metaphorical straws. Flight, the freedom it afforded—

 

His lifelong Quidditch ban at school. Would that still stand, in light of Umbridge's dismissal? And, anyway, the Firebolt had been a gift from...

 

The dementor seemed hesitant to pass the hound, but it wanted Harry badly enough that it made a slow swipe at the dog anyway. The dog snarled, howled, leapt forward.

 

It was like swords meeting. Where teeth clipped decaying flesh, light burst as if struck by steel. Before Harry's eyes, the hound burst into stars, and vanished.

 

He would have stayed and stared forever at the place the dog had been, if it hadn't been for the _sound_ the dementor made, high and freezing in his ears, what Harry could only imagine was akin to the sound of souls being shredded through broken glass.

 

It was the worst sound Harry had ever heard. He thought he might do anything to make it stop— _anything_.

 

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” Harry screamed back at the wraith, trying to drown it out.

 

The stag finally erupted from his wand, the unexpected force of it pushing Harry backwards onto the cot. The force of it was physical and abrupt, and something sliced into Harry's face as he fell, but he couldn't spare even a second to worry about _what._ The patronus charged the dementor, antlers lowered. The stag burned like moonlight, cold and fierce, and it drove the dementor back through the doorway. Harry flung himself back to his feet and forward out of the shed, watching for the other dementors as he stepped back into the open yard. Sure enough, they had drawn in close around the shed, though the presence of the patronus gave them pause. Harry's hand shook as he cast a second patronus. It was dimmer than the first, seemed a bit less solid, wavering in and out like nervous water, but it stayed by Harry's side as he made his escape from the garden shed, and soon he was running full out away from Aunt Marge's house. The dementors followed at a distance as Harry ran, a moon-bright stag by either shoulder, and the lit the ground around him, helping him find his way in the night. The baying of hounds filled the dark streets as Harry ran out towards the fields behind his aunt's neighbourhood.

 

The second stag set its hooves to the ground one time too many, and splashed to starry droplets against the grass. Harry tried to breathe, and got nothing but a single sharp burst of pain, no air. He missed a step in the darkness as the ground dipped away, and sprawled. The cold from the dementors was catching up with him, making his movements clumsy as he lost feeling in his toes and fingers. Pushing himself back to his feet, Harry kept running. He didn't know where he was running to, but he was running and that was all that mattered.

 

The first stag was growing dimmer as Harry lost energy, and Harry knew that he couldn't outrun the dementors. They floated ever closer as the patronus grew weaker, just biding their time. They had targeted Harry, perhaps because he had escaped them the previous summer, perhaps just by chance. Harry didn't know or care.

 

He wasn't sure what instinct it was that made him do it—maybe that famously idiotic Gryffindor flair for the dramatic, or maybe something deeper and more primal—but Harry unfurled his invisibility cloak, and let it fly behind him like a banner, as he reached for the corners. For an instant, he thought the dementors faltered, but then they were rushing him faster than ever. With no air in his lungs to scream, Harry swept the cloak around himself so that it hid him. Only the bright patronus at his side could give away his location now, but he wasn't willing to give up what small protection it afforded him. He wasn't sure invisibility cloaks could fool dementors...hadn't Professor Dumbledore said they didn't? Why had he put it on, anyway?

 

The stag patronus dissolved, and Harry felt it go like a cool mist against his skin. He kept running. Behind him, the dementors swooped across the field drawing steadily nearer. One rushed by an arm's length in front of him, but didn't attack. Harry wondered if they were trying to herd him somewhere, which brought on whole new areas of panic. He'd never really thought of dementors as sentient creatures, just mindless soul suckers. But this, this was a targeted attack. The dementors had a goal, and it was _him_.

 

His stomach heaved, panic and adrenaline warring for dominance, but Harry fought off sickness as he kept running. _Run run runrunrunrun!_

 

Another dementor brushed by, this one just touching Harry's arm. It stopped, and Harry stopped too, holding his breath. From the darkness around him, the hounds grew louder and louder. The hair on the back of Harry's neck prickled, rising away fro his skin, and Harry felt bony hands grope at his shoulders. They had found him. Whether or not they could see through his invisibility cloak, the dementors had him.

 

Harry gripped his wand, fist tight about the handle, and whirled around to face his death.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chapter a few days early, since I'm not sure I'll have internet on Monday. I'm about to leave for Spring Break! :D Hopefully midterms went well for all of you!

It was like being sucked through the turbines of a jet, Harry decided. He had vague memories of the sensation from when he had appeared on the roof of his primary school after escaping Dudley and his gang, but the roiling queasiness was new. He sank to his knees, threw up immediately, and was abruptly aware that he had just apparated to...somewhere. Hopefully somewhere far away, out of reach of the dementors for good.

 

Standing back up, Harry gripped the edges of the invisibility cloak, and though it had never seemed particularly warm, it was offering him more warmth than he thought he'd felt all summer. He looked around, trying to see if he recognized any of the landscapes, and realized that his glasses had fallen off at some point during his flight from the dementors. He couldn't even _see_ any of his surroundings, let alone recognize them. He was exhausted and blind, and his feet were freezing cold and wet from the grass. He hadn't exactly had time to put his shoes on before leaving Aunt Marge's house, after all. 

 

Limping on numb feet, Harry chose a direction that had the fuzzy shapes of buildings and a few faint lights just visible along the horizon, and headed for it. If he could find a town, he would know more or less where he was and could wait until morning to get in touch with...someone.

 

 _Hermione,_ he thought. _I'll call Hermione. She'll know what to do..._

 

**HPHPHP**

 

In the end, Harry arrived in what was a small town just before sunrise, but couldn't call Hermione after all, since he had no money for a public phone, and no one else in town was awake to take pity on him and lend him some. Harry looked around for some clue as to where it was he had apparated to, and finally spotted a small newspaper stand where a few papers from the previous day remained. 

 

“Ottery St. Catchpole,” he said aloud, his heart rate finally beginning to slow to a more normal speed. He lifted his head and looked around again, squinting to orient himself. Now, of course, he knew where he was. The Weasleys lived just outside of town...though he wasn't quite sure of which direction. In a moment more, he realized that the place he had apparated into was the same hill from which they had taken the portkey to the Quidditch World Cup...it felt like a lot longer than two years ago. Harry looked back over his shoulder towards where he had arrived. Basing his knowledge of the area on that distant hill...

 

There. He thought he knew which direction the Burrow was in. He pulled the invisibility cloak tighter around his body and started walking out of town.

 

It was a slow, painful walk. Harry was hardly awake for much of it, trudging slowly, eyes on his feet. He followed the road for nearly two hours, though he was sure the walk had never taken so long when he had stayed with the Weasleys. The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten when he reached a branch in the road that headed off past a small copse of trees. Just beyond those trees, Harry knew, was the Burrow. 

 

That last stretch of dirt road was agonizing. Harry's feet were numb, and bloody from the rocks he hadn't managed to avoid in the dark. As he limped into the yard in front of the leaning, tired old building that was the Burrow, Harry nearly collapsed in relief. Even after Ron and the twins had rescued him before second year, Harry had never found the house so beautiful and welcoming.

 

As he stepped up to the front door, Harry hesitated, fist raised to knock. He knew Mrs. Weasley was usually up early to cook breakfast for her family, but he was still hesitant to interrupt her routine in any way. Other than the invitation at King's Cross, he hadn't really been invited for the summer. With Ron only just recovering, maybe he'd be more of a bother than anything else.

 

 _No,_ he told himself firmly. _It's Mrs. Weasley. She'd welcome_ Snape _in for breakfast, especially if he'd had a night like mine._

 

He knocked.

 

There was no sound from the other side of the door, no voices, nothing. Harry frowned and went around to the other side of the house, noticing for the first time how overgrown the grass in the yard was, and the lack of the usual chickens pecking about in the grass. He peered in through the kitchen window, and found it dark and cold. Harry went back around to the front door and tried the knob. 

 

Locked, of course. He tried it again, not sure what else to do. It remained immobile.

 

“Damn it,” he said, and sank down onto the front stoop, his back against the weathered wood of the Weasleys' door. Now that he thought about it, of course they weren't home. They were probably all in London, at Grimmauld Place. It was closer to St. Mungo's for Ron's treatment, and had far superior wards, but to Harry it felt far less safe.

 

His head jerked up with a sudden thought, and he stared out into the distance as best he could without his glasses. Ron had mentioned something about Death Eaters testing the wards outside the Burrow in his last note, and what was he doing? Sitting on the front porch waiting for them to find him, only the thin fabric of his invisibility cloak between him and a killing curse _._ Harry stood back up and, sudden nervous, went back to the kitchen window. It was a silly idea, nonsensical, but Harry had to try pushing the window open anyway.

 

It lifted easily—so easily that Harry nearly fell through it. He stared, remembering Hermione's declaration regarding wizards and their lack of logic, and knew exactly what she'd meant. Wards, door locking charms, and a whole host of other magical protections, but leave it to wizards to forget to lock a window.

 

Harry hoisted himself up onto the sill and pulled himself into the house. Inside, he collapsed to the floor, pulled the invisibility cloak off, and could not bring himself to move again. He leaned against the wall, and let himself fall asleep at last.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

The flare of green flames in the fireplace awoke Harry. Through the mess of table legs and chairs, Harry could see a pair of boots and the hem of a robe from where he sat, slouched.

 

“Oh, shit. Harry!”

 

Another flash of green from the fireplace.

 

“Charlie, turn around and go get dad!”

 

Hands gripped his shoulders, and he was given an efficient shake as he tried to blink and clear his eyes. They seemed to be crusted over, and when he reached up to clear them, his face stung. Dried blood came off on the back of his hand. 

 

“Harry, are you all right? What happened?” 

 

Harry looked up and found Bill Weasley crouching before him. His were the boots Harry had seen. “I'm fine,” he croaked, his voice torn from panic and strain. “I'm okay,” he said more emphatically as Bill continued to look at him as if he was on the brink of death. “I got out before they could eat me.”

 

For some reason, that didn't seem to reassure the oldest Weasley son. They both looked towards the fireplace as it lit twice in quick succession. Mr. Weasley and Charlie both came around the kitchen table to crouch next to Harry as well.

 

“'Morning,” Harry said, and Mr. Weasley put his face in his hands. He let out a long breath, then looked back up at Harry. 

 

“How badly are you hurt?” he asked, and Harry shook his head. 

 

“I'm not. Just scratched up. Not sure what happened to my face...”

 

“Looks like your glasses shattered,” said Charlie. Harry blinked. It would definitely explain how he'd lost them.

 

“Was it Death Eaters?” Mr. Weasley asked, voice tight with stress. Again, Harry shook his head.

 

“Dementors.” The three Weasleys blanched. “No idea if they were sent by Voldemort or not,” Harry continued, trailing off. 

 

“I thought you were at your Aunt Marge's house...” said Bill.

 

Harry nodded. “I was. We had...some plumbing problems at Number Four, so I went to stay with Aunt Marge until things could be repaired. How did they find me there?”

 

Mr. Weasley helped Harry to his feet and sat him down at the kitchen table. Charlie put the kettle on. Bill quietly folded Harry's invisibility cloak and set it on the table within easy reach. Harry set his wand down in front of him.

 

“Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, his voice gentle. “Harry, is your aunt...did the dementors...?”

 

Harry realized what Mr. Weasley was trying to ask. “Oh! No, she wasn't home last night. Just me and the dogs. Do dementors eat dogs?”

 

“Dementors don't eat anyone, Harry,” said Charlie, voice soft, as he handed a cup of steaming tea tea over.

 

Harry drew it close and blew on the surface. He was surprised to see his hands were shaking. After effects of terror, he decided, and felt strangely calm. “I didn't mean _eat_ , exactly. Do they eat dog souls? Or, no, I suppose they wouldn't. That's why Sirius was able to...” His hand shook so badly the tea sloshed over the rim of the cup. Harry set it down in its saucer quickly before anyone else could notice.

 

Charlie sat down in the chair next to Harry's, angling it so that he was facing Harry more directly. Harry avoided his gaze, staring down at the bits of tea that had escaped the strainer into his cup. They swirled mildly around, still disturbed by his shaking hands. Mr. Weasley and Bill pulled away, Mr. Weasley kneeling to fire call Grimmauld Place.

 

“Are you sure you're okay?” Charlie asked, and though he was obviously concerned, there wasn't even a hint of pity. He sat there, full witness to Harry's torn up face, his socked feet, and saw only _Harry_. 

 

His eyes burned and itched, and Harry scrubbed at them furiously, still trying not to make eye contact with Charlie. It was just the strain of not having his glasses, that was all, he decided. Nothing more. 

 

Charlie saw the gesture, put one large and callused hand on Harry's shoulder, and Harry nearly fell apart. Instead, he closed his eyes tight, and focused on making his shaking hands still, keeping them under the table until he was sure he had himself under control.

 

It was ridiculous, he thought, that he should have such a reaction to _dementors_ when he could face down Voldemort without hardly breaking a sweat. Voldemort had killed hundreds of people, had murdered his own parents and Harry's as well. What was a dementor but some dumb beast in comparison? And yet, to Harry, the dementors were far more terrifying. There was a reason boggarts appeared to Harry as dementors and not as Voldemort, but Harry could never put a finger on _why_ they did, just that dementors made him feel small and vulnerable in a way that no Dark Lord ever could.

 

He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself again. He could hear Mr. Weasley and Bill talking quietly, still near the fireplace.

 

“Ron says they're his greatest fear...boggart in third year...”

 

“...wonder how he got into the house...”

 

Their words drifted in and out of his hearing, and he kept sucking in deep, desperate breaths, trying to regain control of himself. He needed to be Harry Potter for them. Couldn't let them know he was just a child. He had to be stronger.

 

Charlie passed him a handkerchief, and Harry silently mopped at his face, wincing as the salty tears got into the cuts that were picked out like stars across his cheeks.

 

“So what now?” Harry asked, wincing as his voice cracked. _Great,_ snarked his inner monologue. _First I nearly blubber all over Charlie,_ _then that. Way to make a mature, tough impression._

 

Mr. Weasley met his gaze. “Well, you'll have to come back to headquarters until we can get everything all figured out and arranged. There will be records of an unauthorized apparation we'll need to get rid of by today, too. What time would you estimate you left your aunt's?”

 

“Uh...” Harry frowned as he thought back. “I don't really know,” he admitted. “Just after midnight, maybe? I didn't exactly stop to look at a clock...”

 

“I don't blame you there!” said Bill, with a twisted sort of smile. Harry didn't smile back.

 

“Will I be in trouble with the Ministry again?” he couldn't help but ask. His voice was small, and shaking even to his own ears.

 

Mr. Weasley, however, was shaking his head. “Not if we can cover your tracks,” he said firmly. “Don't you worry about that, Harry. Now, let's get you to headquarters so Molly can get you all sorted.”

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Harry fell through the floo and landed in a pile on the cold stone of Grimmauld Place's kitchen hearth. Instantly Mrs. Weasley was helping him up, patting him off, and hugging him repeatedly.

 

“Oh, Harry, dear! When Arthur said—I just couldn't believe—Are you quite all right, Harry?” She could hardly finish one sentence before she started a new one. Steering Harry over to the table, she sat him down and started serving up a heaping bowl of her best oatmeal, dotted with fruit and swimming in cream and honey.

 

“I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, and tried to put certainty and confidence into his tone. She wouldn't be convinced, however, and kept getting between Harry and his breakfast to wipe the dried blood from his cheeks and forehead, to wrap a quilt around his shoulders, or just to smooth a hand through his hair. He pretended to be exasperated, but was secretly pleased. No one had ever made such a fuss over him before.

 

Footsteps pounding down the stairs alerted them both to Ron's arrival just seconds before his voice did the job as well.

 

“Mum! Mum, Pig's brought Harry's present back unopened!” Harry stood as his friend rushed in, an expression fear on his face, no colour in the skin behind his freckles. “He could be—“

 

“Could be here at Number Twelve?” asked his mother, her voice as gentle as Charlie's had been with Harry. Ron turned red, but that was a definite improvement from the washed out horror of just a moment before. Harry pulled back the chair next to his, and sat back down. Ron sat too, staring at his friend with an expression that said he was waiting for an explanation.

 

“I had a bit of a bad night,” said Harry. Busy ladling a bowl of oatmeal for her son, Mrs. Weasley snorted, but didn't interrupt.

 

“What happened to your face, mate?” asked Ron.

 

“Lost my glasses, I suppose.” Harry shrugged and passed the pitcher of pumpkin juice over to Ron.

 

Ron pushed it back. “Not allowed to have pumpkin _anythin_ _g_ right now,” said Ron mournfully. “Interacts badly with one of the healing potions I'm taking. Tea, though?” Nodding, Harry passed the teapot.

 

There was a lengthy silence as they both ate their oatmeal. Mrs. Weasley set a plate of rashers out between them as well. Finally, Ron spoke again.

 

“So..how did you lose your glasses, then?”

 

Harry made a face. “It sounds like I'm making things up, but dementors showed up at my aunt's house, same as last summer. Only there were more of them.” Ron stared, wide-eyed.

 

“Anyone...hurt?”

 

Harry shook his head. “No, she was gone for a few days. It was just me and her dogs.”

 

“But what about your uncle and cousin?”

 

Harry stared at Ron, confused. “What?” he asked.

 

“Your uncle and your cousin. They were gone too?”

 

Harry blinked, then understood. “Oh, no! Different aunt.”

 

“ _Different_ aunt? You have more than one?” Ron was frowning as he spread jam on a thick slice of toast.

 

“Yeah, my uncle's sister. The one I blew up before third year, remember?”

 

“...I always thought you'd meant your mum's sister...”

 

Harry wrinkled his nose. “There have been a few close calls, but no.”

 

They went back to eating until the fireplace lit up and spat out the Mr. Weasley and the two oldest sons. 

 

“Wards are all still holding, Molly. Nothing to worry about. Here's your knitting basket, as you asked.” Mr. Weasley handed a large basket overflowing with knitting needles and yarn to his wife and sat down across from Harry and Ron. “It's a good thing you're keyed into the wards, Harry. Might have been a disaster, otherwise.”

 

“We've tweaked them now, though,” said Bill. “If a witch or wizard goes within fifty feet of them a proximity alert will go off here. No more surprises in the middle of the night, hey, Harry?” He grinned, and Harry nodded, thinking that would be for the best.

 

“I'm sorry about that,” he said. “I didn't really _want_ to break into your home, but I didn't know what else to do...”

 

Mrs. Weasley came and put her arms around his shoulders. “Don't you worry about a thing, Harry. We're glad you did. We might not have found you, otherwise!” She released him and went back to fetching breakfast for her family.

 

“What _were_ you doing back at the Burrow?” Harry asked, turning to look at Bill, Mr. Weasley, and Charlie. 

 

“Checking the wards,” said Bill, pulling the marmalade jar towards his plate. “We do it a few times each week, mostly to make sure no one had been tampering with them. Death Eaters can't get in—well, no one was supposed to be able to get in, actually, but...”

 

“The wards recognized you, Harry. No worries,” said Mr. Weasley. He beamed at Harry. “Knew you were part of the family, that's what.”

 

Only the presence of his best mate prevented Harry from breaking down.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Over the course of the morning, the other Weasley children slowly trickled downstairs, with the noticeable absence of Percy. They were all ecstatic to see Harry, but also extremely concerned when they noticed the fresh cuts on his face. Mrs. Weasley had at some point over breakfast handed Harry a small vial of potion, which he had dutifully drunk, and the cuts had healed somewhat, but not entirely. They had dulled down to tight pink lines, the new skin pulling uncomfortably whenever Harry did anything like smile, or raise his eyebrows. He pretended he was Snape, and spent the whole morning squinting angrily at everyone, taking imaginary points, much to the Twins' and Ron's amusement. Ginny kept getting strangely teary eyed whenever she looked at him, so Harry put extra attention into trying to make her laugh. 

 

Really, though, Harry was beginning to get a rather bad headache, and just after lunch went up to the room he had shared with Ron the previous summer to close his eyes for a while. He saw a blur of white move across the room, and raised his arm for Hedwig to land on.

 

“Hey, girl,” he said, and stroked her gently, though it was a slightly awkward movement, as he had his invisibility cloak tucked under his one arm. He moved closer to his old bed, and saw that Mrs. Figg had made good on her promise, that his trunk was safely at Headquarters. Hedwig moved up his arm towards his shoulder as he bent down to open it. He placed the cloak on top, smoothing a hand over it, before closing the trunk again.

 

It had been a long morning, and an even longer night before that. A nap seemed...well deserved, Harry thought. He put Hedwig up on the back of the headboard and lay down on top of the covers. Not a long one, he thought sleepily, just a short one.

 

When he didn't come back down for over an hour, Mrs. Weasley sent Ron up to look in on him. The sight of his friend passed out cold in bed, unresponsive to his name being called concerned Ron, but by then he'd been told what had happened the night before, and couldn't hold it against Harry that he would need sleep. He went downstairs with an idea, however. His mother was only too glad to help when he told it to her.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Harry yawned, feeling colder than usual as he sat up in bed. He was belatedly aware of the fact that his clothes were fairly dirty, from the number of times he'd fallen in them, as well as from blood from his face. He got up and dug through his school trunk, looking for clothing that didn't scream “School!” at him. A pair of uniform trousers, a forgotten muggle t-shirt, and the past Christmas's jumper from Mrs. Weasley was the best he could come up with. 

 

He carried the armful to the bathroom across the hall, and ran himself a scorching shower. The magical water heater must be broken, however, because despite the steam, the water felt icy cold on his skin. The Dursleys had never allowed Harry to use hot water, anyway, though, so he was more or less used to it. Scrubbing off quickly, and rinsing some of the correct potion through his hair, Harry made a quick job of getting clean. 

 

Shivering, he dried off with one of the thick, monogrammed towels which had been left behind by the Blacks when the house was vacated. Like everything else in the house, it had a faint musty smell, but there was nothing that could be done about that. Harry squinted at himself in the foggy old mirror, but there was really nothing he could do to improve the mop he called hair. Without his glasses, though, his face seemed incomplete to him, and it was disconcerting to leave the bathroom half blind. 

 

He returned to his bedroom briefly to retrieve his wand from the bedside table, though he was sure he wouldn't need it—not in a house filled with Order members—but not having it in Aunt Marge's sitting room the night before had scared him badly, and he wasn't about to repeat his mistake of not keeping it on him. After a second, he opened his school trunk and pulled out his invisibility cloak, too. He folded it as small as it would go, and then tucked it into the back of his trousers up under the jumper. He would not be caught unawares again.

 

Giving a sleepy Hedwig a soft scratch on her head, Harry made his way downstairs, barefoot, because he had apparently taken all of his spare socks out of his trunk, and he was pretty sure the one's he had worn to Grimmauld Place were beyond salvage.

 

On the ground floor, Harry peered into the kitchen, and found it empty. He padded down the hall to the front parlour, and pushed the door open.

 

“SURPRISE!”

 

It certainly was that. Harry had his wand up and levelled at the room before he'd registered the word, the rush of magic just stopped before it could erupt and hurt anyone. Horrified that he had nearly attacked his friends, Harry dropped his wand.

 

“Sorry!” he said. “I'm sorry, I—“

 

Arms were around his torso, thick brown hair tickling his face.

 

“It's okay, Harry. We should have realized...” Hermione pulled away, her face pale. “Mr. Weasley told us what happened. We should have realized you'd still be...”

 

 _Jumpy?_ Harry wondered what the last word of her sentence would have been. _Nervous? Trigger-happy? Paranoid?_ There were lots of fitting words, and all of them applied. But he was _so_ glad that he'd stopped himself in time. Without saying anything, he bent and picked his wand up, before he looked around the room. 

 

Aside from the Weasleys and Hermione, Neville and Luna had both been brought to headquarters for the evening, along with their respective guardians. 

 

 _Good,_ Harry thought. _They're targets now. The Death Eaters will have identified them by now. It's good that they have a safe place to go._

 

“Surprise, what?” he suddenly thought to ask, at a loss as to why all of his friends would be there just then. There was scattered, half-uncomfortable laughter.

 

“Your birthday, Harry,” said Ginny, voice soft as if afraid any louder would upset him.

 

“Oh. Oh!” He'd forgotten completely. 

 

Fred—or was it George—laughed, and put a heavy arm around Harry's shoulders, pulling him towards a table that had been set up along one wall. "Come on, Harry. We've got cake, ice cream, and presents. Time enough later to worry about whatever it is that made you forget your own birthday!"

 

Harry didn't think it would be that easy, but allowed himself to be guided towards the treats. Around him his friends and the handful of Order members (most the Weasley adults, but Tonks' hair—red and gold for the occasion—could be spotted bouncing around near the wizards' wireless, as well as Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was having a conversation with Bill Weasley in a corner) slowly helped build a sense of celebration. It took a while, but eventually Harry actually felt some of the stress that had built up since the end of the school year drain away, and he felt the smiles coming more naturally. 

 

"Harry, here," said a quiet voice at his elbow. Harry turned and found Neville. He was holding out a small package, which Harry took in surprise.

 

"Neville, you didn't have to. I don't have anything for you...wasn't your birthday just yesterday?"

 

Neville shrugged. "Yes, but don't worry about it. You've been a really great friend, Harry. I've grown into a much stronger person because of you, and that means a lot to me. Are you going to open that?"

 

Harry could feel his face burning, and he wanted to protest. He hadn't been a good friend. He'd been a terrible friend. How long had the two of them shared a dorm? Five years. And how well did he know Neville Longbottom? Not well at all. He wondered if anyone really knew Neville, if the other boy felt that _Harry_ had been a good friend. Silently, Harry resolved to do better. He looked at the small box in his hands.

 

Slowly, not used to receiving gifts in person, Harry slowly unwrapped the simple gold paper. Inside was a small book, titled Beadle the Bard. Harry looked up at Neville, and was surprised to see the boy's face was lightly pink.

 

"It's traditional wizarding fairy tales," he said, shrugging a bit. "I...thought you probably wouldn't have your own copy, but they're light hearted, mostly. I...didn't think you'd want anything useful or important. You get a bit too much of that, I think..." The blush had definitely increased as Neville had spoken, but Harry was stunned into momentary silence by the astute reasoning of his quiet dorm mate. 

 

"Thanks, Neville," he said quietly, but with feeling. "It sounds perfect." He meant every word. Neville shrugged again, and smiled a bit. 

 

The rest of the evening passed without incident (unless one counted the portrait of Mrs. Black screeching at anyone who went through the hall to use the toilet), and by the time the guests left it was well past midnight. Harry, despite having napped for several hours, was tired enough that he fell straight asleep again when he returned to the room he and Ron shared. Ron, still recovering, had left the party early, and was already sound asleep before Harry even got there, so he made sure to keep his movements quiet so as not to wake him. 

 

It had been a good night, and though Harry felt significantly more relaxed than he had before, he still made sure to put his wand under his pillow, and the invisibility cloak was tucked under the blankets with him, within easy reach.

 

It was an unfortunate truth of life, but lessons hard learned were often the lessons learned best.

 

 


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the crazy long delay on this, guys! Had some internet issues over the past month. Thanks, as always, to the lovely Kindigo for her hard work as beta. Any mistakes remaining are entirely my own fault.

 

Falling asleep felt like drowning. The shocking cold hit Harry across the face and stole the breath from his lungs like he'd been thrown headlong into the ocean. He hit his knees, icy cold mist biting at his cheeks like flies, and soothing them again with touches soft as velvet.

 

A stabbing two-pronged headache threatened to split his head into thirds. It felt like trees were pushing their way through his skull, and if he died from the pain, Harry wouldn't even care.

 

And then, in the space between two stuttering heartbeats, all pain ceased. Harry drew a deep breath and tasted clean, green earth, and air that had been strained through new-budding leaves. For the first time in weeks, Harry felt _warm_. 

 

He opened his eyes. 

 

Nothingness, blinding and brilliant. He felt as if his eyes were working better than they ever had in his life, but he could see nothing.

 

He turned, still on his knees, trying to find a point of reference, and caught sight of his invisibility cloak, lying tangled beneath him, shining silver, the only thing besides him in that blank emptiness. Harry picked it up, draping its folds over his one arm. His wand was nowhere to be seen.

 

Harry put a hand to the nothingness that equalled ground, and was surprised to feel cool grass beneath his fingers where he could see only a white void. 

 

Harry stared at the emptiness between his fingers, trying to wrap his mind around this seeming contradiction. He saw again the invisibility cloak on his arm, and knew immediately what to do.

 

Harry put on the cloak.

 

It was as if sight had been suddenly returned after years in dark places.

 

It was a hazy world, filled with tall trees and pale sunlight, and a steady gentle rain, misting down from the cloudless sky as if it had all the time in the universe. Everything had a sense of being washed out and just out of reach. Harry walked towards one of the trees and put a hand on it, and it felt just as real as the grass had. He reached to run a hand through his hair, his father's own nervous habit, and stopped.

 

There, like two bone-smooth tree branches—

 

Harry woke up.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

He sat up in bed, the invisibility cloak tangled around his neck like a hangman's noose. Harry fought his way free, gasping, and shivering. 

 

What sort of dream was _that_? It had felt bizarre, disjointed, and nerve wrecking. He had dreamed strange things before, but he'd never dreamed of a world that could only be seen when the dreamer himself was invisible. He didn't know where such an idea would have come from.

 

 _Too much cake and ice cream,_ he told himself. _Too much sugar. Hermione's parents might be right about it, after all..._

 

Harry pushed the invisibility cloak towards the foot of the bed, made sure his wand was still safely under his pillow—not having his wand in his dream had definitely worried him—and rolled back over to sleep again.

 

He didn't dream again between then and morning, and when he woke it was to barely-dawn light streaming in the dusty window. Ron was still snoring softly in the other bed, and so Harry made his way down to the kitchen in silence, taking the cloak and his wand with him. 

 

He nearly tripped over Kreacher on his way down the stairs.

 

"Nasty blood traitors still coming to ruin Mistress's beautiful house," muttered the twisted little house elf. "Getting their grimy hands all over the good silver, the jewellery, the valuables. Selling it, no doubt. Mistress's priceless heirlooms, Master Regulus's special things..."

 

Harry gripped his wand, felt it warming in his hand, and promptly loosened his grip again. "Kreacher," he said, voice filled with a putrid tasting hatred he hadn't known was in him. "Go to your room and don't come out except to do your chores and eat. If I hear another word out of your mouth, you'll _wish_ your mistress had beheaded you and stuck you to the wall years ago."

 

And Harry kept walking, unaware of the effect his words had had on the house elf, who had promptly popped away back to the hole he claimed as his room. Harry went on to the kitchen, and tried to pretend he hadn't even _seen_ Kreacher, remembering that it was he who had lied about Sirius's whereabouts. He didn't know that Kreacher was bound to obey him.

 

The kitchen was occupied by Mrs. Weasley, and Minerva McGonagall, and no one else. They were sitting at the fireplace end of the long table, neither speaking, both just looking into their delicate teacups. If Harry hadn't known well just what his head of house thought of Divination, he'd have suspected her of looking for answers in her dregs.

 

Standing in the doorway, Harry hesitated to interrupt what looked like a solemn moment...

 

And then Mrs. Weasley looked up, saw him, and smiled. It was her usual smile, warm as fresh bread and just as soft, but there was a charred, burned out sort of edge to it. Things had been bad for him, and he'd been mostly away from the action, he suddenly realized. What was going on with the adults that they weren't telling him? Was it that they thought he was too young, or was it that, like Dumbledore, they feared Voldemort gaining access to their plans through Harry?

 

 _Not as if my scar has even twinged since the end of the school year,_ thought Harry, trying to smile back at Mrs. Weasley, if only for appearances' sake. “Mind if I join you?” he asked. 

 

“Not at all, Mr. Potter,” said Professor McGonagall. She patted the back of the chair next to hers, and Harry went and sat down. Mrs. Weasley poured him a cup of what turned out to be a strong Irish Breakfast tea.

 

“You're awake early, Harry. Nightmares?” asked Mrs. Weasley kindly. Harry shook his head emphatically.

 

“Not nightmares,” he said. “Just...weird dreams. I think I had too much sugar last night.”

 

“And there, now we have proof that you're growing up, birthday or no,” teased Mrs. Weasley. “No _child_ ever admits to having had too many sweets.” She and McGonagall laughed a bit, both apparently needing any small levity. Harry quirked a smile too, since he couldn't deny it. He definitely felt different than he had just a few weeks ago, though he wasn't sure that had much of anything to do with turning sixteen.

 

There was a long, tense pause, and no amount of joking could hide the grim mood that hung over the kitchen.

 

“...something happened last night, didn't it?” Harry asked.

 

The two women exchanged a long look. In it, they silently debated what to tell Harry, what would be safe, what information Dumbledore said was forbidden...and what they were willing to tell Harry despite Dumbledore's warnings.

 

“Emmeline Vance and Mundungus Fletcher were taken by Death Eaters last night,” said Professor McGonagall, voice low and weary. Harry stared. He hadn't known either of them well, but 'Dung was a fairly familiar face around Grimmauld Place.

 

“Are they going to...?” Harry couldn't bring himself to finish the question.

 

“They're going to do what Death Eaters always do,” said a cold voice, all sharp enunciation and short vowel sounds. Harry turned around sharply to see Severus Snape standing in the doorway. For such a thin man, he stole much of the presence from any room he entered. “They are going to be tortured until they talk. Then they will continue to be tortured just for the pleasure of hearing them scream until they are too ruined to scream any more. And then they will be killed. Gruesomely.”

 

Harry was pale and shaking. Molly stood and advanced on Snape.

 

“For shame, Severus! He doesn't need to hear such—“

 

“You said it yourself,” snapped Snape. “He's not a child any more. He asked a question, do him the courtesy of answering it!”

 

McGonagall put a hand on Harry's, which was clenched tight on the table. “Are you all right, Harry?” she asked.

 

“Of course not!” snarled Harry, unable to keep himself in check. “I was having a god damned birthday party last night! There's a _war_ on, and I was _having a birthday party_. What the hell is wrong with all of us? We should have been working out strategies, or developing weapons against them, not dancing to the Wizards' Wireless!” He pushed his chair back so hard it fell over, leaving him plenty of room to leave the table. He brushed past Snape, not at all apologetic as he knocked into the man's shoulder.

 

The silence in the kitchen was dark and ringing, disturbed only by the sound of Harry storming up the stairs, and Mrs. Black's portrait's miserable wailing from the hall. The door to the kitchen swung slowly shut and blocked her out. Snape looked back at the two women, both of whom were staring at him with open hostility.

 

Snape sneered as he moved towards the fireplace, ready to floo back to Hogwarts. “Do you want him to be the saviour of the wizarding world, or a child?” he asked, voice tight. “You can't have both.”

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Harry slammed the door behind him and sank down, back against it. His fists were clenched so hard the nails were biting into his palm.

 

_I need to clip them soon..._

 

Inane. Pointless thoughts, designed to distract, meant to take attention away.

 

_I need new clothing. New glasses too. I need new shoes..._

 

_I need a new family. Maybe a new life. This one sucks. Shit. I need to start my summer course work. I need to find a really good Christmas present for Neville this year. He's more than earned something nice..._

 

Harry thought useless little thoughts like those until he was far enough removed from his own current situation that he could think about it rationally. Movement near the bed wound up being a far more effective distraction however. 

 

Buckbeak peered around the shredded curtains of the bed, and Harry realized that he'd gone to the wrong bedroom. Sirius had come up to this room when he was upset too...

 

That thought was like a knife in the belly. 

 

Buckbeak came over and eyed Harry. Emotionally drained, Harry couldn't bring himself to stand and bow the way one should with an hippogriff. If he managed to offend Buckbeak now, he really didn't want to think about what would happen. 

 

It was therefore a shock when Buckbeak bowed first. 

 

Too surprised to do anything else, Harry slowly inclined his head. Buckbeak settled down near Harry, close enough to rest his head in Harry's lap. Harry stroked his head absently, picking bits of fluff from the hippogriff's feathers, much as he would do for Hedwig. He made a mental note to bring the creature's meals up himself. 

 

Harry sighed and leaned his head back against the door again, closing his eyes. He was getting really tired of not being able to see, and wondered vaguely if there was a potion that could fix his eyesight, or a charm, or anything. He was afraid that if he lost his glasses in a fight again, he might not be able to escape. He hadn't even noticed Buckbeak from just across the room—how was he supposed to see an enemy in a crowd?

 

And so the grim thoughts all came flooding back, and Harry spent a long time trying to beat them back into submission, keeping his mind firmly on the task of grooming Hagrid's old pet.

 

Just how long Harry spent in the master bedroom was anyone's guess, but by the time he'd managed to calm himself down, the rest of the house was up and moving, and breakfast long past, though Mrs. Weasley had set a plate aside for him, kept fresh under a warm golden spell. From the grim mood that hung over the entire household, news about Emmaline and Mundungus had spread. Everyone was as anxious as Harry was to be distracted by menial tasks.

 

Though in significantly better condition, Number Twelve was still something of a pit for dark artefacts, and the cleaning project of the previous summer was still ongoing. The Order (mostly Mrs. Weasley) had finished the main rooms, but it had apparently been decided that morning that the big summer project was going to be the library. Harry suspected Hermione (who had decided to stay for a few days) of having played a large role in that particular decision, but as he had yet to so much as look at his summer school work, the library didn't seem like such a bad place to spend a day, after all.

 

Following closely after his friends, Harry found himself in the second floor library, a few hours before lunch. Hermione stood a few steps further into the room, hands braced on her hips. 

 

“We'll each start with a bookcase. And we'll have your mother conjure us some tables—what's in here won't be big enough.”

 

Ron looked about with an air of hopelessness. “How are we even supposed to check if they're cursed if we can't use magic?”

 

“You don't honestly think they'd keep their own library hexed, do you?” Hermione asked, eyes wide.

 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “This is the Black family, Hermione.”

 

She looked again at the shelves as if re-evaluating. “Good point. Well, we'll start with the writing desk, and I'll draw us up a ledger to make a card catalogue until Bill can help us with curses and the like.”

 

Sighing, the two boys nodded and each grabbed a roll of parchment from the desk in question, and a quill. 

 

The afternoon was spent cleaning out drawers, and writing down lists of books and authors. None of the titles were very familiar, and most were extremely dark sounding—at least if the titles were anything to go by. He was surprised that of the few titles he _did_ recognize, several were from what he'd assumed were muggle writers. 

 

“Was Sun Tzu a wizard?” he asked, looking at The Art of War critically. 

 

“Not to my knowledge,” said Hermione. “But back then they made less distinction, and Asian wizarding culture is very different from European wizarding culture. It wasn't until the People's Revolution that Chinese wizards felt the need to separate themselves from the general population. The heart of the wizarding government fled to Taiwan when Mao took over.”

 

Harry and Ron stared at her until she blushed, shrugging. “When we first heard that the Triwizard Tournament was happening I wanted to make sure I was well-versed on foreign wizarding customs, so I looked up French and Bulgarian customs in particular. And then I got interested, and kept reading about other cultures, too.”

 

Ron rolled his eyes, turning back to the bookshelf he was working on. “That sounds like something you'd do,” he said. He shook his hands out and cracked his knuckles, much to Hermione's disgust, before picking his quill and parchment back up.

 

Harry handed Hermione a filled roll and reached for another.

 

Hermione made a small upset sound. “Harry, I can't even _read_ this...! And I'm not sure what I can read is even correct.” she said. “I'm pretty sure this title should be ' _Signs_ Inside the Sun', not ' _Skies_ Inside the Sun'...”

 

“Yeah, well I can't hardly _see_ it,” Harry griped back. “I need new glasses. Soon. Ron, do wizards have ways to fix eyesight permanently?”

 

“Uh...not sure? I know there are potions we take as kids that help our eyes stay good, but I don't think there's much that can be done after they're bad...”

 

Harry sighed. “Figures,” he muttered. He squinted at Hermione. “I'll try to write more clearly, I promise.”

 

He pulled down The Rain Lands: A Memoir by Wendolyn K. Wendland so that he could read the title properly, and jotted it down. Oak, Holly, and Elder, also by Wendland, followed. He was careful to put them all back exactly where he'd found them, but without his glasses he had to get fairly close to make sense of the lettering on the spines.

 

Most of the books, Harry felt no inclination to read, and tucked them back into their places without hesitation. A small volume called Dark Demons: Dementors, however, quietly made its way into the sleeve of his oversized jumper.

 

“Harry.” His heart lurched, sure Hermione had caught him. He turned guiltily to look at her, but she had her eyes still on her book shelf. “Would you please go fetch the foot stool from the kitchen for me?”

 

Relieved, Harry agreed, and left the room.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Hermione stayed two more nights before returning to her parents. The night after she'd left, Harry and Ron stayed up until ridiculously late, playing chess, and exploding snap, and just talking. They both enjoyed Hermione's company, but sometimes missed having it be just the two of them. The day after their all-nighter was long and miserable, especially since that was the day Mrs. Weasley decided fixing up the garden out back was a good idea. They spent all day in the blistering sun, Ron growing more and more sunburned, and Harry trying desperately to fend off a skull-splitting headache. 

 

Luckily, Harry had lots of experience with plants and weeding from the Dursleys. The work didn't require any sort of conscious thought, so though his head pulsed and pounded, Harry managed to get a considerable amount of work accomplished. It was deemed a successful day when only half the plants had tried to eat them, and no one had fallen in the small pond they discovered out back, which had algae growing all over the surface, pretending to be grass.

 

Sitting around the dinner table that night, Mrs. Weasley noticed how drawn both boys were looking, and set a restorative drought by each of their plates. 

 

“There's been another dementor attack,” said Bill quietly to Mr. Weasley. Harry's fork scraped noisily across his plate as he started. Everyone glanced at him, but pretended they hadn't noticed. 

 

“Not at the table, Bill,” said Mrs. Weasley, her voice firm. “I'm sure there must be _something_ nicer to talk about.”

 

“We, er, took some cuttings that Neville might like,” Ron volunteered. “We were going to send them to him this evening.”

 

“Nothing dangerous, though, right boys?”

 

Fred and George, busily having a whispered conversation at their end of the table perked up at the word “dangerous”. 

 

“Dangerous? Ron and Harry?” asked Fred (or George).

 

“Why on earth would you think they'd do anything _dangerous_?” asked George (or Fred). 

 

“Oh, shut up,” said Ron.

 

“Some of them, we aren't sure what they are,” Harry said. “Neville's a genius with plants, though. He might know. But, uh, if the Order wanted to check them over before we sent them...”

 

“We'll have Professor Snape come over tomorrow to see the garden. There might be potions ingredients among the weeds,” said Mrs. Weasley, passing the bread basket towards Ginny. “If he says they're okay, you can send them to Neville.”

 

“But first you should let us have a go at them,” whispered George in Harry's ear. “We need a few things for some projects we're working on...”

 

“...and as our financier, I'd say you have a vested interest in our production rates...” said Fred, leaning over the back of Harry's chair and whispering in his other ear. He snagged the pitcher for pumpkin juice from in front of Harry and went to refill it for his mother. Of course, since it was Fred, no one was very likely to _want_ pumpkin juice for the rest of the meal...just in case.

 

As dinner progressed, Harry, Ron, and Ginny began a heated discussion about their respective quidditch teams.

 

“I'm telling you, Ginny,” said Ron. “there should be a separate women's league so that teams like the Hollyhead Harpies have a place to play!”

 

“More like so the Chudley Cannons have a place to play,” Ginny sneered. “Or has it escaped your notice that my team is currently four places ahead of yours in the ranking now, and expected to move up another two soon.”

 

“And you intend to play for them after you graduate?” asked Harry, impressed.

 

“If I'm good enough,” said Ginny.

 

“No daughter of mine is playing _quidditch_ for a living,” said Mrs. Weasley. Ginny rolled her eyes and looked pointedly at Harry. He grinned back when Mrs. Weasley wasn't looking.

 

The fire flared, and Lupin stumbled out of the fireplace, bleeding from a long cut down one arm, and several smaller that had cut through his robes across his torso. 

 

“Trouble in Devon,” he said, breathing hard. “Snape managed to get a message out and Dumbledore sent a group of us, but we need...”

 

Mr. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie were already up and moving, reaching for the collection of belts hung next to the fireplace, each with vial after vial of dangerous potions strapped to them. Even Fred and George knew better than to mess with them. 

 

“Who's there?” asked Bill. Lupin said a few names, most of which Harry didn't recognize, and a few he did.

 

Mrs. Weasley sat Lupin down at the table and handed him a glass of water. 

 

“Ginny!” she snapped. “Go fetch a Restorative Drought from the cabinet! Fred, George, get the extra supplies from the hall cupboard, we'll have more injured coming through—“

 

“I'm not staying, Molly,” said Professor Lupin. Ginny, having acted immediately, was already handing him the potion vial. 

 

“What?” asked Harry, staring. 

 

“I can't,” said Lupin, determinedly not meeting Harry's eyes. “They need all the help they can get, and definitely everyone who can conjure a patronus. It's dementors, Molly.”

 

Harry felt the colour wash out of his face. “I should go too,” he said, standing at once. 

 

“You should not!” said Ron, and pulled Harry back down into his seat. “Mum, what can we help with—that isn't suicide?” he asked, his hand fisted tightly in the back of Harry's jumper.

 

“We'll turn the front parlour into a hospital wing. Bring down spare blankets and all the spare mattresses from upstairs, we'll spread them out wherever there's room.”

 

Ron pulled Harry towards the door to the hall to start at once, despite Harry's protests.

 

“Go, Harry,” said Lupin, and finally Harry went.

 

“Not like you could see the dementors to aim, Harry,” said Ron softly as they went up the stairs. “What with your glasses destroyed. And, anyway, you can't cast magic outside of school. The Ministry would be on top of you before you could sneeze.”

 

“At least then there'd be additional backup for the Order,” Harry muttered. They each grabbed a large stack of musty smelling blankets from the upstairs linen cupboard and headed back down. “And I _did_ cast this summer. When they attacked at my Aunt Marge's, I cast two patronuses.”

 

“Patroni,” said Ron absently, setting the blankets on a wing-backed chair. Harry looked at him quizzically, and Ron blushed. “Hermione mentioned,” he muttered. “Apparently there's a wrong way and a right way to make nouns plural, depending on their ending. She ranted a bit.” 

 

Harry was too tightly strung to laugh, but he managed a small smile, all too able to imagine, as they headed back up to the extra bedroom which had been turned into an enormous storage room. There were a number of extra mattresses in there, deemed to musty and uncomfortable for everyday use, but they'd been kept in case of emergencies. Harry hoisted one end of the nearest mattress and Ron grabbed the other.

 

“What word?” Harry asked, trying to keep his mind off the fact that people he knew might very well die before morning. Ron seemed to be attempting to do the same, only in his case it was his family in peril. Harry thought of the grandfather clock in the Burrow living room, and knew where some of the hands would be pointing just about now.

 

“Uh, something starting with an H. And ending with an X. I remember, because all I did was add an E-S ending, and apparently that's _wrong_.” Ron shrugged. “Not my fault the word wasn't English. How was I to know it didn't follow the same rules?”

 

A loud noise came from the kitchen, and both boys turned to stare. When nothing more seemed to happen they moved quickly towards the parlour and found a space for the mattress. Fred and George were busily pushing the furniture back against the walls, opening up the floor considerably. 

 

They brought mattress after mattress down from the upstairs, and Ginny went around behind tucking spare sheets around each. Fred and George, after they finished pushing the last armchair out of the way, helped with mattresses and by carrying in all the medical potions from the house's various wash closet cabinets, as well as a few things from their own room. They had to reassure their mother that those small pills and vials weren't harmful, because for some reason she seemed to doubt them.

 

And then, once everything was arranged, the six of them had to sit around and wait, hoping that all their rushing and hard work would be unneeded. 

 

They weren't so lucky.

 

About twenty minutes after they finished arranging everything, the first injured were delivered to Number Twelve's grate. Harry was in the kitchen when Tonks arrived, barely able to keep herself upright. She was bleeding heavily from a head wound, and Harry led her into the makeshift hospital ward quickly, a clean cloth snatched from the kitchen table held to her hairline.

 

He helped her find a seat, as Mrs. Weasley came over with some clean water and brandishing her wand. Harry hurried back to the kitchen.

 

Tonks was only the beginning. Several Order members Harry didn't know beyond their faces came through, all bearing evidence of a harsh fire fight--spell effects, burns, in one case severe frostbite such as Harry had only ever seen on a television special about someone who'd gotten lost up on a mountain and nearly died. He stared at each as they were brought in, cleaned up, and taken care of. Harry already thought the world of Mrs. Weasley, but she still managed to rise in his estimation over the course of the evening.

 

Those wounds were nothing, however, to the injured who were brought in towards the early hours of the morning. Ron, still easily tired from the Ministry incident had already been sent to bed, and so Ginny had relieved him in helping Harry escort people from floo to the healing room, as Ginny had dubbed it. Mr. Weasley came out of the fire, arm around a bedraggled looking woman. 

 

Harry stood to help her, and recoiled, staring in horror.

 

He had never seen someone who had no soul, before, but there was no mistaking the effects. He had thought Snape capable of the blankest expression in the world, but it was nothing to this empty-eyed creature that stood in Grimmauld Place's kitchen.

 

"Take her, Harry?" asked Mr. Weasley, his voice scratchy and exhausted. "Ginny, don't look," he said, catching sight of the look on his youngest's face. "Just don't look, all right ?"

 

Harry couldn't look away. He put a shaking hand on the woman's arm and wanted to take it off again immediately. There was something so _wrong_ about her, so off, that it was like an oily residue left clinging to Harry's hands. 

 

"Is there even anything that can be done?" he asked, still staring at the woman.

 

"Nothing except to make her comfortable," said Mr. Weasley. "Molly will see to her... And, Harry... Let her know that this is only the first? There will be others like her." Horrified, Harry could only nod. 

 

The rest of the early morning hours were spent with Harry ferrying the soulless from one room to the next. It was a grim, draining task, and thankless. Eventually, people stopped coming through the floo, and though Harry knew that meant everyone else was dead, he could not help but be thankful for it. 

 

The Order hadn't lost anyone, despite injuries all around. Of the people that had come through the fireplace, Harry realized, all were either Order members or victims of the Dementor's Kiss. Apparently even old spells like the Fidelius Charm didn't consider such people _real_ people any more, and didn't bar their passage over the threshold in any way. The thought made Harry shiver with a cold deeper than death.

 

Ginny passed steaming mugs of hot chocolate to everyone, and then left, unable to listen as the Order discussed the night. 

 

“Harry.” Harry turned to look at Professor Lupin. The wounds from earlier were starting to split back open. “You should go on up to bed, too. You don't need to hear these things.”

 

But Harry did need to hear. He wanted to know all that he could, determined to really understand the monsters he so feared. He left, walking just down the hall, and pulled his invisibility cloak out from under the back of his shirt, where it had stayed hidden since the morning after his own narrow escape from dementors. Putting it on, he doubled back on cat-quiet feet, and stood listening at the door.

 

There was silence broken only by the soft taps of hot chocolate mugs being set on the table, and the shifting of tired bodies, as if everyone was waiting for something.

 

Someone, Harry realized, as the sound of the fire grew momentarily louder, as someone came through the floo.

 

“How many lost?” asked Professor Dumbledore. White hot sparks of rage crawled under Harry's skin. The headmaster was still avoiding Harry, and had apparently not even been at the scene of the fight—despite being one of the most powerful wizards in Great Britain, if not the world. 

 

“Four muggles killed,” said Mad-Eye Moody, voice gruff. “Eight kissed. None of our own killed. Worst hit was Hestia. Molly got her stabilized, then we took her to St. Mungo's.”

 

Someone said something below Harry's hearing, to which Dumbledore answered, “No, that won't be necessary. I'll do it myself.”

 

“Best do it by morning, before the children wake up,” said Lupin, voice more weary than Harry had ever heard before.

 

“And what of Severus?” asked Molly.

 

“Severus had to maintain his position,” said Dumbledore. “At any cost. He fled when the Death Eaters did.”

 

“I still don't understand,” said someone, a voice Harry didn't know. “ _Why_ did the Death Eaters flee? They brought the dementors there, didn't they? Why run away?”

 

“Perhaps they don't have such absolute control over them as they'd like,” suggested Mad-Eye. “Perhaps they didn't summon them there at all.”

 

Silence followed. Harry, shaking and icy with terror, decided he had heard enough. He went upstairs, and didn't sleep a wink.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all should leave a comment, 'cause today's my birthday, and I'd appreciate it! ^___^ Hope you enjoy! Gets a bit violent towards the end, just a warning...

**Chapter 5:**

 

Harry heard Ron stirring, and glanced over at his friend's bed. Harry had spent most of the morning sitting in the window seat, staring out at muggle London, and trying to pretend there wasn't a room full of soulless people just two floors beneath him. Though everyone else had been visibly effected by the sight of those people, Harry seemed to be the only one who had any sort of physical, visceral reaction to them, especially to skin-on-skin contact. Despite this, Harry felt drawn to them, horrific as he found them. He couldn't stop staring, and even after having gone up to his room, he kept seeing their faces in his mind, and hadn't been able to sleep because of it.

 

He had wished _that_ for Lucius Malfoy. 

 

He hadn't known what he was saying, hadn't understood what he was suggesting be done to the man. Not really. All he had really known was that the idea was terrifying, and kind of horrible. He hadn't realized that there would be anything left behind to deal with after. He hadn't understood that a person without a soul wasn't even a person any more. There wasn't a word for what they were.

 

And Harry had wished that on another human being.

 

He thought he might be sick. 

 

Of the eight people he'd taken into the parlour the night before, two of them burned into his mind more fiercely than the rest. One was the first woman who had come through with Mr. Weasley, with her long blonde hair, falling loose around her shoulders. She was the first Kiss victim he'd ever seen, and the sight of her seemed to scar his thoughts.

 

The second was the little boy. 

 

He'd been maybe eight years old, his dark skin gone ashen, wide eyes gone vacant. Mad-Eye had brought him through the floo, and then gone straight to the sink to vomit. Ginny, so strong up until that point, had left at a run, and not returned for almost an hour.

 

Harry had taken the little boy's hand, ignoring the feeling that was coming from the soulless boy—thick and oily, like swamp muck—and quietly led him towards the table, where a bowl of water and some rags were waiting for the injured. The boy had obviously fallen. His face was dirty, and he had apparently bit his lip, because there was blood on his mouth. Harry washed his face, washed his hands, and tried not to cry. 

 

Then, he'd led the boy out into the hall, and on towards the parlour Mrs. Weasley, already pale with exhaustion, and gone dead white at the sight of the two of them. She'd pointed a shaking hand towards the corner where they'd been sitting the dementors' victims. Harry had taken the boy's hand again, placed him in a comfortable chair, and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

 

The memory of him sitting there, feet stuck straight out on the cushion before him because he was so small, felt like someone was carving out his insides with a very small spoon, bit by bit, and it got worse every time the image flashed through Harry's mind.

 

Ron moved again, and finally sat up. He'd really pushed himself past his limit the night before, and it showed. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin had a waxy look to it, like he'd been sick for a long time. Harry sometimes forgot his friend was still healing.

 

“Harry, have you been up all night?” asked Ron, voice scratchy from sleep. 

 

Harry shrugged. “Couldn't sleep,” he said, looking out the window again. He heard Ron sigh. 

 

“I'll make sure Mum makes coffee this morning. You won't be the only one needing the extra caffeine.”

 

“Thanks, Ron.”

 

“Don't mention it,” said his friend. Harry could hear Ron get up out of bed and gather his clothes and toiletries before heading off to the bathroom. Harry hadn't even been able to bring himself to change clothes the night before, and so was still wearing the grimy, bloody button down. It was the one he'd ruined on the train, anyway, one of the few articles of clothing in the house that was actually his. He'd been borrowing from Ron a lot since his unexpected arrival.

 

With a sigh, Harry got up and went to his school trunk. He pulled the invisibility cloak out from under his shirt and placed it on the bed. He'd gotten really good at folding it tightly enough that it couldn't be seen under most of his shirts, though he still felt odd, carrying it around like a toddler with a special blanket. He dug through his trunk, found a pair of uniform trousers that were about an inch short in the leg. Mrs. Weasley would be able to lengthen them, he was sure. Digging further, he found one of Dudley's t-shirts (stretched out and far too wide in the shoulders, but at least clean) and an old jumper of Ron's. He also pulled out his scarf and a hat, and a pair of fingerless gloves for quidditch. 

 

With Ron still in the shower, Harry changed clothes quickly, tucking the invisibility cloak back into place, then glanced in the mirror and groaned. He looked like the most clueless pureblood wizard to ever don muggle clothing, rather than the muggle-raised halfblood that he was. The hat and gloves really ruined what would otherwise have been an ugly but acceptable outfit, but Number Twelve was kept far too cold for Harry to go without. He was starting to wonder if magical people were more resistant to cold, and if he was just some sort of fluke. Again. 

 

Sighing, he went downstairs anyway, planning to check on the wounded and...and the rest.

 

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Professor Dumbledore exited the front parlour He and Harry both stopped, staring at one another. 

 

“Ah. Good morning, my boy,” said Dumbledore after an awkward pause. “Awake bright and early, I see.”

 

“Never went to sleep,” said Harry, his voice short. He eyed the door behind Dumbledore. “Everyone okay in there?”

 

“Our people have all been mended marvellously,” said the Headmaster, but Harry thought that answer was evasive at best.

 

“And the rest of the people?”

 

“Ah, Harry. Well, it is regretful, but...” Dumbledore looked back over his shoulder. “I'm afraid Kiss victims are quite beyond our help. We've done the best thing we can do for them.”

 

Something about Dumbledore's tone made Harry's stomach twist, and the coolness of the hallway plummeted. Dumbledore seemed to feel it as well, shivering and eyeing the windows on either side of the front door as if expecting to see them iced over.

 

“What have you done...?” asked Harry, and his voice was deadly calm. 

 

“The humane thing, Harry. It was for the best—“

 

Harry shoved his headmaster aside and burst into the room. The beds that had been occupied by the soulless had been pushed together to form a long single bed, across which the victims had been lain, sheets pulled up over their faces. The last form, nearest to the door, was far shorter than the rest. 

 

Harry hit his knees, groaning.

 

“Harry...”

 

“You killed them,” Harry whimpered. “You really killed them...”

 

“They weren't people any more, Harry. There is no way to cure that state. They lost everything that made them human.”

 

Dumbledore's cold logic lodged in Harry's head like a burr. He couldn't believe that this man, in charge of the wizarding world's children, had such apparent lack of empathy. 

 

He couldn't even find words to answer. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth again, he would start screaming, or sobbing, and never stop. 

 

Harry swallowed hard. He pushed himself back to his feet and turned to face the professor. 

 

“You should leave, sir,” he said at last, staring straight into the shockingly blue eyes. “And I don't think you should come back for a while.”

 

Dumbledore froze for a long moment, then bowed his head a bit, and turned and left.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Harry didn't speak to anyone for the rest of the day, nor the one after, or the one after that. By the end of the week, the Weasleys were truly concerned for his sanity. Harry spent a lot of time upstairs with Buckbeak, and sometimes Kreacher would bring Harry a meal, but always silently. It was a lonely week, and it took Harry a lot of thinking to realize that his behaviour wasn't helping anyone, and was possibly setting Ron's recovery back from the worry. 

 

Friday morning, he went downstairs at breakfast time, and sat down at the table with everyone else.

 

“Mrs. Weasley,” he said quietly. “Would it be possible for us to go into Diagon Alley soon? I need to get new glasses. And clothes, too, I suppose.”

 

There. Simple request, restart the conversation which had died at his appearance in the kitchen. 

 

“Oh, um. Of course, Harry, dear. Hermione is joining us tomorrow morning...maybe in the afternoon?” Mrs. Weasley was keeping her voice at that very calming, slow tone that people use when dealing with the insane or deranged. Harry pretended he didn't notice.

 

“Thanks. I'm a bit sick of how out-of-focus the world is right now.” And, whoops, that was a bit more pointed and direct than he'd meant it to be. Better back-pedal, he thought. “Not being able to see properly, you know... It's been giving me headaches, and...”

 

“Oh, dear, why didn't you say so?” Mrs. Weasley got up at once and found him a small dose of headache soothing potion. 

 

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” he said, and drank the potion down, washing the taste out with a large gulp of tea. It was stone cold in the teacup, though he was certain it had been steaming when he'd poured it not five minutes before. 

 

Conversation resumed slowly, everyone understanding that Harry didn't want to talk about the night of the attack in Devon, or his subsequent behaviour, and especially not the actions of Dumbledore the following morning. He was sure that the adults at least knew what had occurred between him and the headmaster, even if the young people hadn't been told.

 

It was a struggle, but Harry managed to keep himself together for the entire day, acting “normal” for the Weasleys' benefit, even playing a game of chess with Ron, and helping Ginny in the back garden for a while. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Hestia Jones (fully recovered, apparently) both stopped by at various points. Shacklebolt even stayed for dinner. With his robes hanging up in the entry hall, Harry was able to catch sight of the Evening Prophet tucked into an inner pocket. He hadn't been able to find a copy of the paper all day, and he'd begun to suspect the elder Weasleys of intentionally hiding them.

 

Stealing away to snatch the paper while everyone else was enjoying dessert confirmed that suspicion.

 

“Destruction and Dismay! Dementors Decimating British Countryside!” read the headline. Harry quickly skimmed through the article, trying to ignore his twisting insides as he added up the total number of casualties from around the country, including those from the Devon attack. The paper didn't distinguish between those killed and those kissed. Harry didn't know if he'd have even noticed before the scene with Dumbledore in the parlour, but now he did, and it made him sick and lost feeling, like the whole of the wizarding world had been lying to him. 

 

The wizarding world had seemed like a wonderful place to escape from the Dursleys to...at least in the first few years. By third year, of course, he'd begun to understand that sometimes wizards weren't fair, either, that it was just _humanity_ that screwed each other over all the time.

 

Harry folded the paper back the way he'd found it, following the creases carefully, and replaced it in Shacklebolt's robes. They would never know he'd found the paper, Harry decided. He would keep the information close to his chest, at least where the adults were concerned. He knew Hermione got the Daily Prophet, so she'd probably already read the article. Ron...Ron he could tell privately, later. If they were going to make an effective team against the forces of darkness (or whatever Dumbledore believed), then they needed to know as much as possible.

 

Harry returned to the kitchen table, as if he'd only gone to the toilet, rejoining the conversation as if he hadn't just had his universe torn down around him. It had been a week of revelations, that was for certain.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

“Harry, Ron, you both look so much better! I was worried—well, what with the headlines—“ Hermione had wrapped them both in a quick hug before she'd hardly stepped through the door. Professor McGonagall, who had gone to apparate Hermione from her parents' house, followed the girl through the door with a quick backwards glance as if expecting to have been followed. She gave Harry and Ron a weary smile. 

 

“I'm sure you three have a lot to catch up on,” she said. “Best you get to it—outside, if you please. We're having a quick Order meeting before you head off to Diagon Alley this afternoon.” McGonagall turned to head towards the kitchen, but Hermione caught her sleeve. 

 

“Professor, my trunk?” asked Hermione.

 

“Oh, yes, of course,” said McGonagall, and she started rummaging through her deep pockets until at last she brought forth Hermione's shrunken school trunk. She tapped it three times. “It will regain it's natural size in about five minutes, so if I were you I'd take it up to your room now,” she said, kindly but with her usual no-nonsense tone. They didn't argue. Harry had things he wanted to talk about, and he was pretty sure Hermione did, too.

 

They escaped to the room Hermione would be sharing with Ginny, and all piled onto the bed, the curtains half-closed. It was a bit of a tight fit, and they had to sit with their knees touching, but Harry wasn't the slightest bit bothered.

 

“I've been so worried,” said Hermione, staring at both of them. “All I had were the headlines, and even the muggle ones have been dismal. In the last few weeks there have been a series of suicides, all using the same poison, and then the other day a puppy mill owner was found mauled to death by her own starving dogs!” Both boys made faces, and all three of them were sure the world was going crazy.

 

“Still, that's more than we've had,” said Harry. “They haven't let a newspaper in the house since the start of the week.”

 

“The Devon attack?” asked Hermione. Both boys nodded. “Well, that wasn't the last, and certainly wasn't the worst. I've been following the Daily Prophet, but of course they're so unreliable... Well, I've had to expand my newspaper subscriptions to get anything resembling the truth.”

 

“And...what _is_ the truth?” Ron asked warily.

 

“Actually, so far the most reliable information about the attacks has so far been from the Quibbler. Their numbers seem more accurate, and they aren't all about spreading panic throughout the wizarding world the way the Prophet is. Of course, they also claim that dementors are pan-dimensional beings of prophesy, which not even Death can find, but only his master can destroy, or some such nonsense. Ridiculous, of course.” Hermione paused to breathe, and frowned as she looked at them both.

 

“Are you sure you're both quite well enough to go out?” she asked. “I mean, you both look better, but I know it's been a rough summer so far for both of you...”

 

Harry and Ron shared a look, and both shrugged.

 

“I really need to get new glasses, Hermione. I'm only allowed so many headache potions a day, and the strain on my eyes is awful.”

 

“Mum says I'm not to carry anything heavy,” added Ron. “But other than that, I'm fit enough.”

 

“And anyway,” said Harry. “I'm fairly certain Madam Pomfrey told you to take things easy, yourself.” He looked at her pointedly. She blushed and ignored the comment.

 

“Well, if you're sure...”

 

“Relax, Hermione,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “Diagon Alley won't hardly be busy yet, this time of year. Most everyone waits till later in the month.”

 

“Still,” she said, worried. “It'd be just our luck for something bad to happen.”

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Ron was wrong about the Alley not being busy. It was as crowded as it ever was, and everyone seemed to be moving at twice the usual pace. Paranoid, Harry supposed, about the “rogue dementors” the Prophet kept going on about. It wasn't as if they were giving out any useful information, such as information on how to cast _Expecto Patronum_ , according to Hermione, just details about all the ways a dementor could kill, or otherwise consume a person. Apparently the Kiss was not the only thing in their arsenal. Harry had only gotten through the first two chapters of the stolen dementor book from the Black library, but even he knew that the Kiss was only the _worst_ of their weapons. Though the Kiss was by far the most devastating attack in their arsenal, the rest were all equally permanent and all were disastrously debilitating. 

 

They made a quick stop to withdraw money from Gringotts, then returned to the bustling main street of Diagon. The day was bright and beautiful, but Harry could feel a bitter wind sweeping its way through the narrow wizarding buildings. Even as he was squinting around Diagon Alley at the passers-by, Mrs. Weasley led them all towards one of the smaller allies, just a few side streets before Knockturn.

 

“Oculists Owlson and Owlson” Harry read. The letters were exceptionally oversized, as if to help the near-sighted find the shop better. 

 

“Here we are,” Mrs. Weasley said, voice falsely cheerful as she tried to disguise the wariness she felt, being in the Alley after so many dementor attacks. Everyone was feeling the stress.

 

They entered the shop—all of them, as Mrs. Weasley wasn't willing to let any of her charges wander off alone—and Harry was unceremoniously pushed to the front. A small man in brown robes was sitting behind the counter. He hopped to his feet and peered at Harry through a pair of spectacles that rivalled Professor Trelawny's for powers of magnification. 

 

“Mr. Potter!” He exclaimed. “Oh, fantastic! Tiresias, come see!”

 

A second man, wearing a dotted grey waistcoat beneath a dark grey over-robe came out of the back room, and did a little excited hop, himself, and nearly dislodging his own oversized monocle.

 

“Marvellous!” he said. “Odin and I have been hoping to see you since we first spotting your photo in the Daily Prophet and realised you were wearing the single most hideous pair of muggle spectacles we'd ever seen...”

 

Ron snorted. Harry blushed.

 

“Odin and Tiresias Owlson at your service,” said the man in brown robes, Odin.

 

“Oculists and all around occultists, for your convenience,” said the man in grey, Tiresias.

 

Harry shook both of their hands.

 

“What brings you to us, Mr. Potter?” asked Tiresias.

 

“Er, well, my last pair of glasses got...smashed. And lost.”

 

“Good,” said Odin.

 

“Wonderful!” said Tiresias. “New frames, new lenses. We can do that!”

 

“I was...also wondering what can be done to actually _correct_ my sight,” Harry said, a bit sheepishly. “It's a bit worrisome, knowing that at any moment someone could summon my glasses away and leave me handicapped in a fight...”

 

“And, being you,” said Odin. “You have every reason to be worried about such a thing happening, yes.”

 

“Here, come this way,” said Tiresias. He lifted a section of the counter up and Harry went through to the other side, casting a nervous look over his shoulder towards the Weasleys and Hermione, who only grinned and gave him encouraging hand motions. Harry sighed but followed the two squat men into the back room.

 

He sat down on a rather plush stool placed before a basin that resembled a pensieve. He eyed it nervously, having only had negative experiences with them.

 

“First, we need to discover just what's wrong with your eyes to begin with,” said Tiresias.

 

“Drink this,” said Odin, handing a blue glass vial to Harry. Wary, he drank the potion down and waited, unsure of what exactly should be happening.

 

“...three, two, one.” said Tiresias.

 

“Wha—?”

 

A slimy, thick feeling crawled up Harry's throat from his belly, centipede like, and clinging. He gagged, but nothing came out, nothing changed. The sensation rose higher and higher, filling Harry's throat, his mouth, his nose...

 

Retching and coughing, Harry fought the sensation, and hoped it would be over soon. 

 

It gushed into the backs of his eyes, coating the whole surface of them from back to front, colouring his blurred vision silver. It felt like someone had dipped his eyes in honey, or jam—and then it all came pouring out of his tear ducts, looking like mercury shot through with the same vivid green of his eyes, as it rushed to flee his body.

 

One of the Owlson brothers was quick to put a hand on Harry's back, pushing him forward over the basin, where the potion pooled, steaming slightly.

 

After what felt like forever, his eyes stopped streaming and he was allowed to lean back again. Someone (he thought Odin) handed him a handkerchief, and he mopped at his face, sure he looked a mess. 

 

When he'd cleared his eyes out he found both Odin and Tiresias on either side of the basin. Tiresias was calling out runes, which Harry assumed were the ones that had lit up around the rim and Odin was writing them down in a ledger.

 

As the runes dimmed, the oculists leaned over the page together they spoke in low voices, occasionally pointing, commenting.

 

“Fascinating,” said Tiresias.

 

“Strange,” said Odin. 

 

As one they looked up, blinking at Harry. He swallowed.

 

“Is...is there anything the matter?” he asked.

 

“Not at all,” said Odin.

 

“Yes,” said Tiresias at the same time, then paused. “Well, your eyes are atrocious,” he said. “You hadn't gotten that prescription updated in quite a while, had you?” His voice was mild, not accusing or anything, and Harry shook his head, admitting that that assumption was correct. “I thought not. Well, do you want the good news first, or the bad?”

 

“Good...?” said Harry, worried. 

 

“We can fix your eyesight,” said Odin at once.

 

“But you'll still need glasses,” said Tiresias.

 

“What?” asked Harry, thoroughly confused.

 

“Well,” said Odin. “Magic can fix eyesight that is bad because of the eye curvature.”

 

Tiresias shrugged. “It's just delicate transfiguration, really,” said Tiresias. “But you also have some sort of magical problem with your eyes, and fixing something like that is far more like curse breaking than anything else.” 

 

“What _sort_ of magical problem?” Harry asked, trying not to be concerned. 

 

“We can't tell. It's not like anything we've seen before.” Said Odin.

 

Tiresias tilted his head, examining the page again. “Doesn't look like it's debilitating in any way, though, so I would worry about it unless you start to notice problems.”

 

Nodding, Harry sighed. “So, what will fixing my vision leave my sight like?”  


“Who knows?” said Odin. “Might just remain blurry, or it might change for the better.”

 

“Or the worse.” Tiresias shrugged again. “You won't know till you try it, assuming you _want_ to try it?”

 

“Er...I'll need to think about it,” said Harry slowly. He certainly didn't want to rush into anything. “I suppose for now, could you just make me a pair of glasses? And, uh... Can they be made so that they can't break and can't be summon when I'm wearing them?”

 

“Certainly,” the brothers said together. 

 

“Fairly standard, really. Lots of paranoid quidditch players, expecting the worst of the opposition.” Tiresias smiled. “And I know you're a quidditch player yourself, Mr. Potter. We'll put a neat water repelling charm on them, too. Won't need to be renewed for at least two years.”

 

Harry felt like Christmas had come early.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

The Owlson Oculists had gone out of their way for Harry, finding him a pair of glasses similar enough to his old pair in style—simple, round, but made of thin dark metal, rather than Harry's old clunky plastic frames—and casting all number of charms over them. Slipping them on twenty minutes later had been like seeing for the first time. Harry couldn't believe how badly off his old prescription had been. He especially couldn't believe how well he'd managed to play quidditch! He wondered if whatever was magically wrong with his eyes had helped compensate where the snitch was concerned.

 

Harry, Mrs. Weasley, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione all made their way back out into Diagon Alley. The crowds hadn't died down any, even though an unseasonable cold had settled over the alley. The went about getting their usual school supplies, including new robes for both Ron and Harry. Harry had Madam Malkin make a few pairs of trousers and casual shirts and robes as well, since he had so few, though he had reluctantly hidden his cloak in one of his shopping bags while he was being fitted. As they stepped out of the robe shop, Harry glanced up at the sky. Thunderclouds appeared to be rolling in from the north.

 

“We should head home,” he said absently. “It's going to storm...”

 

Mrs. Weasley looked up at the sky, and grew pale. Poisonous green lighting was starting to flash above their heads and the thunderclouds were coalescing into the very familiar shape of a skull and a snake...

 

Around them, the screams were starting.

 

“Floo points, now!” yelled Mrs. Weasley. For a housewife, she sure knew how to pitch her voice like a general. Around them other people were apparating away until—

 

CRACK! And a scream, as someone splinched themselves.

 

“Anti-apparation wards!” yelled a wizard to Harry's left, horror obvious in his tone. “We're trapped! They'll have shut down the floo, too!”

 

Ron and Hermione both suddenly grabbed Harry's shoulders, and whirled him around. Hermione pulled Harry's new cloak out of one of their shopping bags and pulled it around his shoulders, raising the hood.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked. “There's not time for thi—“

 

“If they find out _Harry Potter_ is here today, do you think they'll stop at anything to find you in this mess?” hissed Ron. “We need you to keep as low a profile as possible.”

 

“It's August,” Harry argued. “I'll look just as out of place in a hood and cloak as I would in my quidditch robes, my name across the back in big letters!”

 

“Better than nothing!”

 

There wasn't time to argue any more as from out of the dark clouds flew Death Eaters, their robes whipping in the wind as they brought their brooms down to earth.Still high above him, Harry heard the unmistakable cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange. A tight, hot rush burned up through Harry's chest, and he was trying to free himself from Ron and Hermione before he even knew what he was doing. They gripped his robes tighter, and he was vaguely aware of Hermione whispering “Harry, no!” frantically in his ear.

 

“Let me _go_!”

 

“Not today, Potter,” said Mad-Eye Moody, coming up towards them as fast as his leg would let him. “Molly, the floos are all closed down, and apparation blocked as well. Dumbledore was in the Alley himself, and is busy making portkeys for as many people as he can, but he's wearing out quickly...”

 

Mrs. Weasley looked grim, her mouth an unforgiving straight line. “Right. He hasn't found a way to slow the spread of the curse then?” And Moody shook his head.

 

“What?” asked Ron.

 

“What curse?” asked Hermione.

 

Harry tried not to care, and instead busied himself with trying to find the Death Eaters and their supporters in the crowd. He could hear screaming some ways down the Alley, and knew just where they had landed. “We have to go help,” he said, fighting to be heard over the screams of the crowd that was running past them.

 

“You'll do nothing of the sort!” Moody growled. “You're to get to cover, and _stay_ there till the Order comes for you!”

 

Harry was shaking his head, and still looking out towards the crowd. The mass of screaming people was growing closer, and Harry could see the flash of spells getting brighter. The wind was howling through the buildings, and thunder barked in the distance.

 

Mrs. Weasley was herding them all back into the space between two buildings. As soon as they were out of sight, Harry dropped his shopping bags and turned back to Moody, who had followed. 

 

“I need to help. I can't just hide and wait for the grown-ups to take care of everything!”

 

Moody slammed Harry's shoulders against the wall, hands on either side of his chest, with his wand pointed at Harry's face.

 

“You will do as you're told, Potter, or I'll stun you and leave you disillusioned until this is all over!”

 

Harry glared up at the man, shaking him off. “You don't have the right to tell what I can and can't do,” said Harry, his voice very low. “I have a responsibility, or did Dumbledore never mention that to the Order?”

 

“Harry!” said Mrs. Weasley in shock. “Now is not the time or place!”

 

A loud bang and the smell of sulphur interrupted further confrontation as the fighting came closer. Near Harry's head, a patch of wall exploded. Everyone ducked but Moody, who wheeled around wand straight out in front of him, looking for the caster. 

 

Harry lifted his head. His wand was already gripped tightly in his hand as he rose, hunching to stay low. “Moody, there aren't enough Order members here. You don't have a choice. _Let me help_ ,” he pleaded. “I can do some good.”

 

Moody's magical eye rolled towards Harry, assessing him. “I know Potter. Not my decision, though. Dumbledore's orders.”

 

Harry was getting really sick of hearing those words.

 

“Dumbledore is _not_ my keeper. Not my guardian. I can make my own choices!”

 

“Not today you can't.”

 

Moody pushed Harry back into Ron and Hermione's arms, and stepped out into the street, casting blasting curses, blinding charms, a whole array of non-lethal spells—and a few that Harry were pretty sure _could_ kill a person if used...incorrectly.

 

The bright, wicked flash of green briefly illuminated the street and the screaming rose in volume and pitch. The killing had started.

 

Harry caught Ron and Hermione's eyes, saw that they had understood as well, and they were as pale as Harry felt, himself. Ginny had tears in her eyes, but was standing tall at her mother's shoulder. 

 

“Where do we go, Mum?” she asked. Mrs. Weasley glanced around the corner and then looked back to the four young people in her charge. 

 

“You need to get away from the Alley as quickly as you can,” she said, even though they already understood that. “I have to stay and help the Order, but if you can get out into muggle London, do so. Don't wait for me, don't make eye contact if you can help it.”

 

“The brooms!” said Harry suddenly. Mrs. Weasley looked at him, not understanding. “The Death Eaters came in on brooms,” Harry explained. “If we could get a few, we could fly out.”

 

“If you manage to get a hold of brooms, do it,” said Mrs. Weasley, nodded sharply. “But _don't_ get separated!” They all nodded. Mrs. Weasley grabbed each of them into a tight hug, placed a kiss on each of their foreheads, than went out into the fray, humble robes flying up around her.

 

Harry turned to the other three, saw his fears mirrored in their faces. He squared his shoulders and looked at them over the rims of his new glasses. “Well?” he said.

 

“Right,” said Ron. Hermione and Ginny nodded. 

 

“What about our stuff?” asked Ginny, eyeing their shopping bags. Hermione tucked them behind the leaning pile of old crates and boxes and quietly disillusioned them.   
  
“If anyone asks,” she said with a small twist to her lips. “I used that spell because of a life-threatening situation.” The others grinned too.

 

“Let's go,” said Harry. They followed him out into the chaos.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

It wasn't like anything Harry had ever experienced. The Department of Mysteries had been terrifying, and there had been Death Eaters, but nothing like Diagon Alley was that day. The dementors had been terrifying in another way—heart-stopping and horrific, but it had been only his own life at stake then, and Harry knew how to deal with that. 

 

But Diagon Alley... 

 

Diagon Alley was wrecked. Injured and unconscious people lay all around, trampled by panicking crowds. Some people, Harry thought, were more than just unconscious. A man lay just a few yards from the entrance to their hiding place, and looked as if his head had gotten in the way of a blasting curse. Harry could hear Ginny stifle a gasp just behind him. He pressed on, pulling his new cloak tighter around himself.

 

They ran, pushing their way back towards where the Death Eaters had first landed in the Alley, fighting against the press of people, all moving the opposite direction. It took what felt like forever to move even three store fronts down the street as people knocked into them—jostling and scraping to get away. Harry panted as he pushed hard at the oncoming rush. It was all he could do to move forward, let alone make sure his friends were with him. He could only trust that they would keep an eye on him, as he was out in front.

 

Something sliced past his ear, clipping a lock of his hair. Harry swerved, and someone nearby cried out in pain. He didn't have time to check on them. He pushed on. 

 

Another spell, sizzling as it brushed his shoulder. 

 

“Shit,” he heard Ron say, but since it was nothing stronger, he assumed it had missed his friend. Probably a near miss, though.

 

“Keep going!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Stay with me!”

 

They tried, but he could feel his friends getting further behind as he weaved and dodged his way through the crowd like the quidditch player he was. Spells weren't so different from bludgers, and the panicking people weren't so different from opposing team players.

 

Harry tried to just keep going, tried to ignore the things going on around him, but that just wasn't in his nature. From the corner of his eye he spotted a large male Death Eater with his wand trained firmly on a man who had to have been simply doing his weekly grocery shopping. Vegetables and other goods were spilled over the pavement near where he sprawled, writhing under the Cruciatus Curse.

 

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Harry yelled, and the Death Eater collapsed. Harry paused just long enough to help the man to his feet. “Find Dumbledore, he's making portkeys out!” said Harry, breathing hard. The man stared at him. 

 

“You're—!?”

 

“Shh!” said Ron, appearing at Harry's shoulder. “They can't know he's here,” he said. The man, still shaky, nodded.

 

“They won't hear it from me,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

 

Harry was already moving away. The howling in the wind was getting louder, and it was raising the hairs on the back of Harry's neck. As they continued to run, Harry kept catching glimpses of some animal, running just out of sight and dodging among people's legs. 

 

A spell slithered through the air, violently purple, and struck his left shoulder. His arm hung limp and aching at his side, useless.

 

“Potter!” someone shouted, and Harry saw Draco Malfoy coming towards him in a hurry. Harry didn't waste his breath swearing, and simply swung to face Malfoy full on, and bringing his wand up high. Malfoy was already casting again, another one of those purple spells. He let it fly, and Harry ducked, now moving towards his opponent. Harry threw a confounding charm, followed immediately by a shield charm as Malfoy retaliated. Above and around them, the storm howled all the louder, and suddenly Harry wondered if it was the storm at all. At the edge of his vision, distracting him, he still caught glimpses of that small white hound.

 

His shield charm broke. Around him, the street flashed with green, and someone else lay dead. 

 

“ _Fernunculus!”_ Harry shouted, and the spell hit Malfoy right in the face. Malfoy cast blindly and managed to catch Harry full in the chest with something that felt like a sledgehammer.

 

Harry stumbled backwards, heard Ron screaming his name.

 

Another flash of green around him, striking him as a woman somewhere screamed.

 

The sledgehammer was nothing compared to it. Wind dragged at him, like a train hurtling towards him, and then sweeping through him as the killing curse smashed him from his body.

 

Harry Potter fell to the ground, and did not move.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this! I know I left you all with a horrible cliffhanger... But I'm rewarding your patience with some Ron POV, so enjoy. :D
> 
> Some aspects of this chapter may be confusing, but rest assured that everything will be explained in due time. :) Thanks for reading, everyone! (And thank you to those of you who left me birthday wishes after the last chapter!)

Ron Weasley knew his mother as a kind and gentle woman, and a doting mother—with a temper. She made fudge and sweaters at Christmas, delicious soups when any of her children were sick, and kept a clean, if cluttered, home, filled with bright flowers and good smells. His mother was round and full of good energies, which she spent much of her time sending towards her husband or her children, and rarely any time spent on herself. The faint crows' feet at the corners of her eyes were new, and her hair was only just beginning to be touched with white at the temples.

 

But his mother had changed in ways that were far less noticeable to the casual observer. She still took care of her family, still cooked like a master chef, and could still peel the paint off a wall with her yelling, if one got on her bad side, but ever since the end of the Triwizard Tournament in fourth year, she had begun to grow harder. She slept less, ate less. She was no longer quite so round and soft as she'd been, and her hugs felt just a touch more brittle, as if every time she hugged that child she was afraid it would be the last.

 

Ron blamed Voldemort. Since he'd come back, things had been different. Of course they had, but especially where his family and friends were concerned, because they were all tied up so closely with the war effort, and with Harry Potter. But, no matter what bullshit the Ministry spewed, Ron was done doubting Harry's word. He knew his friend as well as anyone could—better now, since his accident in the Department of Mysteries, and those brains had latched on to his mind and pulled and tugged till he no longer knew _himself—_ and he knew that Harry would never _ever_ lie about anything related to the war. Well, he would never lie to Ron and Hermione.

 

Adults were another matter.

 

Ron knew Harry had issues with authority figures. They were mostly issues that Harry himself was unaware of, but after the Ministry incident, Ron was aware of them, and had begun to understand them, to his personal horror.

 

And now, watching Harry talk back to Mad-Eye Moody—an adult he knew Harry respected quite a lot—he was starting to see a new side to Harry, too. Like he had with his mother.

 

When Harry led the way out into Diagon Alley, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all followed, because that's what people did when Harry decided to go after the bad guys. They fell into line, and when Harry said things needed to be done, he had a loyal group of friends, ready and willing to do those things.

 

Ron chased after Harry, determined to keep up, to not let Harry out of his sight. The last time Harry had gotten out of his sight, he'd wound up fighting Voldemort in the Ministry Atrium.

 

Harry dodged, and Ron saw a man break out in boils from the spell, crying out as he fell over. Harry dodged again, and the spell missed him again. Ron wasn't quite so fast. Running just behind Harry, the spell brushed his arm, grazing it so that it only burned a bit.  
  
“Shit,” he hissed, and ran faster, keeping an eye on Harry's movements. Harry had a sixth sense where magic was concerned, always just ahead of the game in duels—both real and practice with the DA. It had served him well. He shot off a few of his own spells, saw Harry veer slightly and take out a Death Eater with a stunning spell. The man was obviously shocked to see it was the Boy-Who-Lived himself come to his rescue, but they didn't have time to chit chat. Hermione was breathing hard at his elbow, and Ginny was pale and sweating, and it looked like a hex had hit her across the face. Ron made Harry keep going, and it didn't take long for Harry to pull ahead again, slipping between the panicked shoppers like a shadow.

 

He saw a spell hit Harry's arm, saw Harry stumble, turn, and raise his wand.

 

Then he heard Ginny cry out, saw his mother's face in the crowd, her hair more fly-away than ever. Her cheeks were dead white. Terror.

 

It was a dilemma. The worst kind. Best friend—or little sister? _You can only help one._

 

He knew which Harry would say. Harry would say “family first. Always”.

 

Ron turned, looked past Hermione who was staring at him. She hadn't heard Ginny's cry, and—

 

Ron felt the colour drain from his face. Ginny was crying, trying to send hexes backwards over her shoulder.

 

Bellatrix Lestrange had his baby sister by the hair.

 

His heart seemed to stop, a stutter-lurch in against his ribs, and Ron had to help her, had to do something, because _Bellatrix was raising her wand!_

 

“ _Crucio!”_ shouted the Death Eater, and Ginny seemed to curl in on herself, still held by her hair as if dangling from a fiery hangman's rope. Ron couldn't get there in time. He shoved his way past Hermione, who was just turning to see. Heard her gasp as she saw.

 

Ron was yelling, screaming something stupid and pointless until he had run out of air in his lungs. He would kill that woman for hurting Ginny! No one hurt his little sister—

 

His mother got to her first.

 

“Not my daughter you _bitch!_ ”

 

Time. Slowed.

 

Ron stared, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Watched. His mother raised her wand, saw her become that person he'd only really met after Voldemort's return. He saw her cast.

 

A rush of wind pushed past, just like it had fourth year during their lesson about the Unforgivable Curses. His mother staggered as the killing curse left her wand and fled, screaming through the air.

 

Ron saw as Harry stumbled back, holding his chest.

 

Saw. Saw everything. Saw the expression on his mother's face change like lightning as she saw, too—saw too late.

 

Harry fell back, and the curse struck him instead of Bellatrix.

 

Ron watched, could not believe, and he was screaming again.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

It was a blast of air in the face, hard enough to bruise and sharp enough to cut. His hair whipped about his face, stinging where it struck.

 

He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't smell or taste or touch.

 

Everything—the entire universe, which was his entire self, and all the nothingness that filled the air, his lungs, his mind—was just one rushing, roaring stage of white.

 

The nothing-light faded, gave the semblance of reality, and he found himself standing, waiting for the train.

 

Harry stood there, perfectly still, as the world around him defined itself and found edges and shapes in the blank whiteness. The white hound pressed itself against his legs, not cowering, just seeking companionship and reassurance, and Harry found he needed those things, too. He crouched to scratch the dog behind its ears, and looked around. He felt so calm it frightened him. He'd died, hadn't he? That's what this place was. He should be upset or something...but he wasn't.

 

King's Cross Station, more brilliantly clean than he had ever seen it in waking life, and impossibly empty, save for him, the hound, and whatever was making the soft sad sounds nearby.

 

Harry looked for the source, and found it.

 

A bundle of rags, wrapped up and tucked beneath a bench, as if someone had been ashamed of it and wanted to hide it. Harry went over and peered at it, the hound sniffing close, ears back and hackles raised just a shade.

 

It was a baby, whimpering and hideous, its physical form all twisted and deformed.

 

And yet, it was possibly one of the most beautiful things Harry had ever seen. Though its outside was horrible, something about it shone more brightly than Harry had thought a thing ever could.

 

“It's a soul,” he whispered. “A human soul...”

 

But it wasn't _his_.

 

A thought flashed through his mind, and he thought he knew whose it was, how it had grown so ugly.

 

Harry looked down at his hands and saw that he was glowing too, even more brightly than the baby, and he wanted to cry, because he suddenly understood that the monstrous baby was only _part_ of a soul, that someone had seen fit to intentionally maim it, and remove parts of it from itself. It was the most horrible thing Harry could imagine.

 

Tears poured down his face.

 

“He doesn't want you,” said Harry, and the baby stopped crying, looking at him with wide eyes, blue, shot through with bloody red.

 

“He doesn't want you,” Harry repeated, sure now that he had the broken soul's attention. He swallowed, not knowing if what he was about to do was wise, or right, or possible. “So I'll take you,” he said.

 

Harry leaned forward, scooping the baby up, disentangling it from the rags it was swaddled in. He held the baby close, his eyes closed. The dog whimpered nearby, then fell silent as Harry held the baby closer and closer, like he'd never abandon it. He hugged it as tightly as he could until the baby was just...gone, and Harry was alone with his arms wrapped around his own chest. He'd made it part of himself, had felt the broken thing sigh in contentment, then let go, wanted at last.

 

Harry stood, looked again at the waiting train, at the dog, at the nothingness above that rained down light. His chest hurt, and there would be comfortable compartments on the train where he could lie down until he felt better. He—

 

Harry stopped,

 

He couldn't board that train.

 

The hound was tugging at his trousers again, and Harry looked down.

 

“What now?” he asked.

 

“Go home,” said the stag.

 

Harry looked up, stared at the sudden appearance of a beast that looked like his patronus made manifest and, with the usual acceptance of dreams, nodded.

 

“All right. Have you been there long?” he asked, afraid he'd been ignoring his guest.

 

“Always. Not long. Go now.” The stag was fading away like stars at dawn, and the hound's whimpering was growing louder.

 

“How?” asked Harry.

 

“Go now,” said the stag again, and charged.

 

His antlers pierced Harry's chest like sunlight, burning their way in and deeper.

 

Harry went.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Harry had fallen on his back, his hood pushed away. His distinctive hair, the round glasses frames, that _scar_. There was no mistaking him—he was _iconic_. In the immediate area there fell a silence as sharp as glass. In the distance, Ron could hear his mother's harsh, broken screaming, but even it could not penetrate the silence. It wasn't like normal silence—this quiet was deadly, it preyed on the ears and mind and heart, and Ron could not free himself from its grip.

 

In that stillness even the Death Eaters paused and stared in disbelief. The-Boy-Who-Lived. Dead. It was impossible, and yet they'd all seen him go down. Amid the chaos of their own personal battles, everyone on that street had seen the symbol or good and peace fall to darkness.

 

 _If I hadn't tried to help Ginny—_!

 

But, no, Harry wouldn't want him thinking like that, wouldn't want him blaming himself.

 

He couldn't help it, though. He was on his knees in the street, staring as Bellatrix Lestrange dropped her hold on his sister in her shock, and start to step forward. From the opposite side of the street his mother had also started forward.

 

Ron couldn't do anything. He sat and stared and felt the tears just flowing down his face, helplessly.

 

He felt like he was broken. This is what it felt like when a piece of the soul curled in on itself and gave up. His heart still beat, his lungs still worked, his eyes still saw, but Ron felt more dead inside than he'd ever thought a living person could.

 

 _This must be what victims of the dementors' Kiss are like,_ he decided in a flash of painful clarity. _This is why it is more kind to let them die. This is no life._

 

Hermione was standing behind him, statue still. He could hear her muttering under her breath, Harry's name over and over again like a mantra.

 

“Get up, Harry. Harry, get up. Get up, Harry. Harry, get up...” and so on, like wishing could bring back the dead.

 

Dead.

 

_Dead. Oh, God, Harry's dead and it's my fault—I didn't get there in time! We split up! I didn't stay with him! It's my fault...!_

 

No. No, he could fix this, he could stop it from happening. There were ways—a time turner, for example, or—

 

He was lying to himself.

 

Through dead eyes he watched as his mother cast again and again at Bellatrix Lestrange. She didn't land a single curse, but the mad woman couldn't get any closer to Harry's body.

 

She could still point a wand at him, though.

 

Tears flooding so fast he couldn't see, and Ron swiped at his face, pushed himself back to his feet, and charged forward. Harry might be gone, but he'd be damned if he let that woman do anything to him, even now.

 

He ran, keeping low, and reached out, caught hold of Harry's shoulders, and knelt next to him, his back between Bellatrix and Harry. He could still keep Harry safe. It wasn't too late to do that much. He could still protect his friend this small amount at least.

 

Harry was like ice to touch, and felt strange and empty in Ron's arms, but he held on.

 

The wind rose, carrying with it the smell of damp earth after spring rain—clean and cold. The cold spread. Ice crept out from where Ron knelt, reaching out in all directions like the corona around an eclipse. Ron didn't know what it meant, and held onto his best friend all the harder.

 

And then Harry stirred.

 

Ron stopped moving, stopped breathing, was afraid that he'd just imagined it.

 

Harry moved again, actually _raised a hand to his head_ and then struggled to get free of Ron's arms.

 

“What's going on?” he asked, sounding like he'd just woken up from a nap, not as if he'd been dead in the street moments ago.

 

Ron stared at Harry in disbelief, and heard gasps in the crowd around them. He fisted a shaking hand in the front of Harry's jumper, then let go. Then gripped it again.

 

“Ron, what—? Behind you!” Harry's wand came up, went over Ron's shoulder, and something sizzling and smelling like curry tore past his ear. He heard someone cry out in pain and turned, finally tearing his eyes away from Harry. Another Death Eater had been approaching, mask still firmly in place. Bellatrix Lestrange was shouting for the Death Eaters to retreat, to fall back, and she grabbed the second Death Eater by the arm. Ron felt the anti-apparation charms fall, and then all the Death Eaters vanished in a series of cracks that rang up and down the Alley.

 

Shakily, Harry got to his feet, looking around at about hip-level, like he was searching for something. He kept touching his chest as if afraid that something would come spilling out if he wasn't careful.

 

He didn't notice the way people hung back, watching him, assessing what they'd seen. He didn't notice the strange distance Ron's mother was giving him as her guilt warred with her relief and shock and awe. He made sure all his friends were fine, then began going around checking on those who had been injured, making sure they were comfortable until Healers could be brought, and seemed generally unaware that he had survived the impossible for the second time in his short lifetime.

 

The-Boy-Who-Lived had lived again.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the long delay. I basically haven't had wifi since school got out for the summer, and my laptop is a piece of crap. (But I was pricing new ones just yesterday, so hopefully THAT won't be a problem for much longer!) Anyway, this is the last chapter of the summer holidays. After this they're back to Hogwarts, and that's when the real fun starts...

**Chapter 7:**

 

It didn't take long for reporters to show up, once the anti-apparation wards were gone, and next to no time at all for them to hear about what had happened to Harry. Harry wasn't sure, himself, what had happened, and wanted nothing more than to leave Diagon Alley. 

 

His flight was waylaid by the hoard of healers who all wanted to talk to him, run diagnostic spells, and make him drink potions (though he did let them fix his small hurts, like the cracked sternum from his duel with Malfoy). When one of them started going on about blood samples, however, Professor Dumbledore finally arrived and intervened. 

 

“ _No one_ will be taking a single drop of this boy's blood. Nor a single strand of his hair!” he said loudly. He turned to Harry, smiling gently, eyes all a-twinkle. “Harry, my dear boy, I think it's best we get you somewhere safer...”

 

Ron, who was holding on to the back of Harry's jumper, nodded emphatically. Hermione, standing so close she was bumping into him, was equally emphatic. 

 

“We can sneak him out—disillusion him, probably,” she said in a low tone.

 

“Oh, wait, I have my—“ 

 

Harry had been going to say “cloak” but as he reached under the back of his jumper, he found nothing. No cloak. 

 

 _No cloak!? What happened to it!?_ Harry fought back the panic that was rising. 

 

“Harry? Are you okay?” asked Ron. “You're really pale. Are you sure you don't need a potion, or...”

 

“My cloak,” Harry croaked. “I had it with me today, just in case...” He drew in a sharp breath, remembering abruptly. “Our shopping bags. I put it in one of my shopping bags. Where are those?”

 

“Mum went back for them,” said Ginny, voice ragged and weary. Harry sagged in relief. 

 

“Harry Potter!” someone called, and Harry—wound extremely tight after the trying day—spun and raised his wand, shield charm already being cast as he turned.

 

It was only Rita Skeeter. Groaning, Harry rolled his eyes and turned away. 

 

“I'm not interested in speaking with you,” he said shortly. 

 

“Oh, come now, Harry,” Rita purred, coming closer, a roll of parchment and her acid green quill already out and ready. “Surely you'd spare a single comment for your favourite journalist...”

 

“Miss Skeeter,” said Dumbledore in a tone that left no room for argument. “I believe it would be for the best if you could please desist. Harry has said that he does not wish to speak with you, and it would be only courteous to respect his wishes. He's been through a traumatic experience, as I've no doubt you've heard...”

 

"Oh, I've heard all right!" said Rita, a conniving glint in her eye. "I'd _like_ to hear it from Harry himself!"

 

"Well, Harry isn't interested!" snapped Ron, putting an arm around Harry's shoulders and leading him away. Hermione gave Skeeter a very pointed look, and then followed the boys.

 

Harry went along without a fuss, feeling a bit lost, anyway. It was nice to have someone else decide where to go and what to do, for a while. Ron took them to a small bench just out of sight of the crowd. 

 

"Mum used this as a meeting spot, back when we were little," he said, looking around. "If one of us got separated, we were to come straight here and wait."

 

Harry looked around too, and sat down next to Ron. Hermione was wringing her hands, not wanting to sit and be still. 

 

"I think Flourish and Blotts caught fire," she said, looking back the way they had come. "I thought so, but I didn't have time to double check..."

 

They both stared at her, Ron with his mouth hanging open.

 

"Hermione, I'm sure there were spells to protect the books..." said Harry.

 

Hermione burst into tears. 

 

"You idiot," said Ron. "She's not worried about the books." He got up off the bench and put his arms around Hermione's shoulders, awkwardly rubbing her back as she bawled all over his robes.

 

Harry stared, finally got it, and blushed. "Oh," he said, and looked at his worn out shoes. He'd bought new ones—he thought they were in the same bag as his invisibility cloak—but just then he was still dressed like Harry Potter, the Dursleys' delinquent dependent. He felt less noticeable, safer, dressed like that. He took the red cloak off his shoulders, folded it, and set it next to him on the bench. "I...I'm sorry," he said at last. "I don't really understand what happened, but—"

 

"Don't understand!?" Hermione screeched. "You _died_ , Harry! Died. I thought you were gone for good!"

 

Harry was silent, staring at his feet, until he heard additional sniffling. He looked up, shocked to find Ron valiantly fighting back tears of his own. 

 

"Not you too?" he said, desperately.

 

"Yes, me fucking too!" snarled Ron, angry and upset, still feeling like his heart wasn't yet beating normally. "We can't lose you, Harry."

 

Harry looked away. "I know," he said. "I have to defeat Voldemort, so—"

 

Ron punched him.

 

Hermione stared. Harry gaped.

 

"What was that for!?" he demanded when he had finally collected himself.

 

"For being an idiot!" said Ron. " _Not_ because you're the fucking Boy-Who-Lived! Because you're _Harry_! Our friend Harry!"

 

Harry stared and tried to understand. He wasn't sure when Ron had grown so perceptive, to have picked up on that secret fear of Harry's, but there it was. Ron knew, understood, and said just the right thing to reassure Harry that the fears were unfounded. 

 

Harry felt his breath shorten, tears threatening to spill. He stood up from the bench and joined them where they stood, let them both put an arm around his shoulders. 

 

They all stood there, forehead to forehead to forehead, until Mrs. Weasley came to take them home.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

There was an emergency Order meeting called that night. Naturally, it was about Harry, though of course he wasn't allowed to attend. The twins offered him the use of their extendable ears, but Harry wasn't in the right frame of mind to eavesdrop. He was far too bothered by that broken shard of soul he'd found in his...mind? Soul? Well, wherever that place had been. He had some research to do, he decided, and went up to the library shortly after dinner, which was a subdued affair, everyone reeling and definitely awestruck. 

 

In fact, whenever Harry entered a room over the next week, even the Order—even his _friends—_ would stop for just a split second, watching him. The library, ever Hermione's favourite retreat, became something of a sanctuary to Harry, as well. Ron and Hermione watched him like he would break at any second. Once, Harry woke up in the middle of the night to find Ron staring at him through the darkness. When he asked why, Ron had muttered something about thinking he couldn't hear Harry breathing.

 

Some nights, Harry just didn't go to sleep at all. Ever since the attack on Diagon Alley, Harry had begun to have strange dreams about a stag that could speak, though they became less frequent with time. He thought he might have seen the same stag when he'd been hit by the killing curse, but the memory of that in-between place was foggy at best.

 

On those nights, he spent his time digging through the many old books in the Black family's extensive collection. Bill had finally gone through the shelves and found which books were cursed, removing all harmful spells, and leaving those meant to help readers in various ways. Harry was glad of that, because he barely knew where to begin. The baby from the dream train station (the train station between life and death? Harry wasn't sure what it really was, anyway.) seemed a far too complex subject for him to work out on his own, but he wasn't ready to explain what had happened during the few minutes when he'd been...dead. 

 

The word rang in Harry's mind, and he still couldn't quite believe it. He'd fallen backwards, yes, from the force of Malfoy's hex, and he'd seen the flash of green, felt it hit... But he couldn't accept that he had actually been _dead_.

 

He turned the page in his book. The library had a handy search feature, one Hermione had been quick to wish for the Hogwarts' library. A small slate, set near the door let potential researchers write down a keyword, and all the books in which that word featured prominently lit up on the shelves. It had led him straight to a handful of volumes, including the one he was paging through at that moment.

 

Harry had written “white hounds” on the slate, and “ghost dogs” because he remembered the way that the one at Aunt Marge's had vanished. Nothing mortal did that.

 

For such vague terms, he had found a surprising number of results, though most of them seemed to be found in books of legends and myths. Everything from Grims to Graveyard Dogs to Seth, Harry felt like every culture on the planet must have had stories about spectral dogs of some type. It was frustrating, but at long last he thought he had found the dogs he was looking for.

 

The Hounds of Annwn. White, with red ears and paws, they were associated with the Welsh god of death and the underworld. 

 

Harry sighed. He almost wished it _were_ a Grim he kept seeing, because all that he read about Annwn and the other stories in the Mabignon just sounded complicated and bothersome, and it wasn't as if he didn't have enough on his plate already.

 

On top of that, nothing he read made any sense of why they might want to follow _him_ around. Maybe it was because he kept surviving when he shouldn't, and their master wanted them to bring him down to the underworld... Morbid thoughts like that, and worse, were part of the reason Harry had been unable to sleep lately. 

 

The other reason, the dreams with the stag, would be Harry's next research project, but it would probably have to wait until they were all back at Hogwarts. August was almost over, and summer holiday with it. With as chaotic and stressful as the past few months had been, Harry was almost looking forward to school again. 

 

Of course, school would bring its own challenges, namely Malfoy and Snape. But Harry could deal with them.

 

When dawn started to peek through the curtains Harry gathered up his books and returned them to their positions on the shelves, trying to hide his late night activities. Ron would be waking up soon. He had to go pretend he'd been in bed all night, or Ron might panic. Some mornings he even managed to really fall asleep for a few hours before breakfast, others he just “woke up” when Ron did. It was easier for everyone, if they remained ignorant of Harry's insomnia, and sometimes it seemed as if the house itself helped him sneak around undetected.

 

Harry crawled into his bed, and pulled the blankets up to his ears. That morning was not one of the ones where sleep found him.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

September first was more nerve wracking than usual. On top of the typical last minute packing panic, there was also added concern over the safety of all who were leaving Grimmauld Place that morning...but mostly concern for Harry. Back at Hogwarts, there would be no constant adult supervision, no Mrs. Weasley to make sure he was eating properly, or getting to bed on time. Ron quietly promised his mother that, yes, he was keeping a close eye on Harry. What he didn't tell her was that he thought he himself might be cracking up a bit. He kept seeing Harry in his mind's eye, dead and gone, and it unnerved him in a way that he had never expected of himself.

 

Hermione kept staring at Harry when he wasn't looking, as if trying to decipher a particularly difficult arithmancy problem, and kept getting the answer wrong. She spent most of the morning of the first trying to remember where she'd put her list of books (so that she could cross-reference some things once at Hogwarts), find her errant cat, and try not to panic about Harry being out in the public eye again, even if only for the short amount of time it took to board the train. She eventually found Crookshanks curled up on Harry's bed, rubbing his face against the invisibility cloak. Harry sat on the floor, the contents of his trunk all spread out still.

 

“Harry! We leave in less than an hour!” she exclaimed, scooping her cat up and staring in horror at the mess.

 

“I know,” said Harry. “Should I leave some of this stuff here, do you think?”

 

“Do you need all of it?”

 

“Well...no...”

 

“Then leave it,” she said.

 

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, but, will the Order mind?”

 

Hermione sighed. “Harry, this isn't the Order's house, it's Sirius' house. He would have _loved_ for you to leave your stuff _all_ over the house, not just in your bedroom.”

 

He stared at her, and she wished suddenly that she hadn't mentioned Sirius after all. She'd meant it to make him feel better, but...

 

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said. He gathered up a pile of old robes, most of which had stains and burns from potions class on them, and piled them in a heap at the foot of the wardrobe. He left his collection of chocolate frog cards on his bedside table, and pulled a stack of books out of the trunk—texts from previous years—and shoved them under his bed. Hermione winced.

 

“I always just kept it in my trunk,” he said, catching the look on her face. “Didn't exactly want to leave things out at the Dursleys, in case they decided to wreck things, or get rid of them, or something.” He shrugged, putting some of the new clothes they'd bought the day of the Diagon Alley attack at the bottom of the trunk, packed his new potions ingredients safely inside the standard pewter cauldron so that if they _did_ manage to spill (though they were spelled not to) they at least wouldn't spill far. He packed his new text books on top of his clothes.

 

Hermione watched in silence, then put Crookshanks on the floor, shooing him towards the door. The cat sat down and stared up at her instead. She ignored him, and went to help Harry pack because, honestly, everything was going to _wrinkle_ and heavier things, such as books, ought to go on the bottom, and didn't Harry know _anything_...? 

 

As she griped good-naturedly about his lack of packing skills, Harry grew less nervous about going back to Hogwarts, and though he knew that was her not-so-secret goal, he was pleased anyway. He let her talk, and tried to ignore the twisting worry that coiled in his gut.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Harry stepped through the barrier at Platform 9 ¾ and looked around. Just behind him, Ron came hurtling through the barrier as well, looking about him with a vague expression of fear. He spotted Harry and exhaled loudly, pushing his cart over to stand at Harry's shoulder. 

 

“Time for another year,” he said softly, looking at the train, all scarlet and dragon-like, as jets of steam were released from valves off the sides. Harry nodded, and the apprehension that had plagued him all morning increased.

 

Hermione and Ginny came in behind them, and Mr. Weasley brought up the rear. Mrs. Weasley, having gone first, was already a ways ahead, looking for a good place for them to stow their luggage. She waved at them, and they made their way through the crowd towards her. When people recognized Harry, a stillness followed in his wake. He was used to people staring, but it was worse than it had ever been. Ron was a tall, reassuring presence, stuck close to his shoulder. Hermione stayed by his other, and together they created an effective buffer from the worst of the staring.

 

And then their trunks were all loaded, and Harry wondered where the morning had gone as Mrs. Weasley hugged them each, running an affectionate hand through each of her children's hair. When she got to Harry she paused as if she wanted to say something. She hadn't met his eyes since the attack on Diagon, and Harry couldn't understand why. She was his best friend's mum, she knew him better than any other adult. He really hoped she wasn't being taken in by all the Boy-Who-Lived crap, because he wasn't anything special. Not really.

 

“Oh, Harry,” she said, and hugged him tightly. “I'm—I wanted to say I'm sorry,” she said. “So sorry, dear. I didn't mean to.”

 

“Er...didn't mean to...?”

 

She was crying, her soft arms still around his shoulders. With a start, Harry realized he was taller than her.

 

“I'm so glad you're all right, dear,” she said, and let him go. 

 

Then there was no more excuses to be made, and the clock was getting steadily closer to departure time, and it was time to get on the train and leave. Harry turned and looked at the doorway in front of him. 

 

Harry felt sweat beginning to bead on his forehead, as for the first time ever, he found he _didn't_ want to board the Hogwarts Express. Ron stepped forward and put a foot on the train.

 

“Wait!” said Harry. “You can't go. Don't board the train, Ron!”

 

Ron looked back over his shoulder. “What? Why not?”

 

“I—I don't know,” Harry admitted. “I just...the train's giving me a weird feeling.”

 

Blinding white, the empty station, the hound, the stag. Don't board the train. Go home.

 

He took a deep breath, realizing that he was just afraid of a dream. “Never mind,” he said. “I think I'm just tired.”

 

“We're all that, Harry,” said Ron. He stepped the rest of the way up, and leaned back to help pull Harry up. They each grabbed Hermione's hands and helped her as well, and turned to find a compartment of their own. Harry felt faint and shaky, but tried to pretend he was fine as they made their way down the narrow corridor.

 

They found an empty compartment down towards the rear end of the train, and were shortly joined by Luna, Neville, and Ginny, who had wandered away to say hi to a few friends. As the train lurched away from the station, Harry clutched at the arm rest on his seat, and closed his eyes. Ron and Hermione looked at him in concern, but Harry kept his eyes closed almost the entire trip, which wound up being for the best. The journey took all day, but even by the end of it, people were still coming down to their compartment to make sure Harry really was on board, really was still alive. 

 

Of course, there were those who insisted that Harry and the Weasleys had just faked the entire “death” to gain support for Dumbledore's supporters and the ministry. Pansy Parkinson walked by, talking very loudly about fakers and liars, and how the Ministry was just trying to incite panic so that people would pay for help and safety. Millicent Bulstrode and Blaise Zabini, on the other hand, had each stood quietly in the doorway for a moment and not said a word before moving on.

 

Harry missed all of those encounters, because he'd fallen asleep.

 

Neville, sitting next to him, quietly draped his jumper over Harry's shoulders, because the other boy seemed cold.

 

With Harry dead to the world, the rest of the compartment made sure to keep their activities quiet. Hermione read (of course), and Ginny and Ron played chess. Luna drew pictures in a large sketchbook while Neville did word puzzles from a muggle book, but as they drew nearer the Hogsmeade station, they began to grow concerned about the fact that Harry hadn't woken up at all over the course of the trip. Ron leaned across the space between the two seats and shook Harry's shoulder gently.

 

“Harry, mate,” he said. “Time to get our uniforms on.”

 

Harry didn't respond.

 

Something awful flitted through Ron's head, and he swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fear. He shook Harry's shoulder harder. 

 

“Harry! You have to wake up!”

 

Harry bolted upright from his slouched position, gasping as if he'd been having a terrible nightmare. He knocked his head right against Ron's, and they both winced, recoiling.

 

“Ow...” said Harry, rubbing at this forehead in agitation. “What'd you do that for?”

 

“Trying to get you to wake up, that's what for. We need to get dressed. Train's nearly to school.” Ron was rubbing his own forehead, a pained expression on his face.

 

With a groan, Harry pushed himself up out of the seat and reached for the bag he'd stowed his school uniform in. Harry, Ron, and Neville left the compartment to the girls, and went to change in the loo. 

 

**HPHPHP**

 

They'd left it so late that by the time they were straightening their school ties, the train was lurching to a stop. In the mayhem of everyone trying to disembark, the three boys were unable to make it back to the girls in the push of people. They found a carriage towards the end of the line, the thestral harnessed to the front. Harry sighed, scratched it behind the ears, then climbed into the carriage.

 

Ron stared as the thestral leaned into the caress, and felt sick. 

 

He'd never seen them before. And now, after Diagon Alley... He swallowed. He had been trying hard to pretend that Harry hadn't _really_ died there on that street, but this was proof. Harry _had_ been dead. And then he hadn't been. But he _had_ been, and that was the bit that Ron kept getting stuck on, kept worrying about. 

 

Neville brushed past him, straight into the carriage, and Ron was jolted from his thoughts. He could see Harry just beyond the door of the carriage, smiling at something Neville was saying, and shifting a bit in his seat to get more comfortable.

 

Ron looked back at the skeletal horse, and couldn't draw breath properly. 

 

“They're not pretty, are they?” someone asked just behind him. He turned, and saw Blaise Zabini staring at the thestral, too. He recalled, vaguely, that the boy had seemed to be able to see them already, when Hagrid had given the lesson on them. Momentarily ignoring the snake crest on the boy's robes, Ron shook his head. 

 

“Not in the slightest,” he said. 

 

“You were in Diagon Alley when it happened.” 

 

Ron nodded. “I was.”

 

Blaise smiled, odd, a little twisted, and looked straight at Ron. “So now you see them. Death does strange things to people. It changes them, makes them stronger, sometimes. Certainly, it made my mother stronger.”

 

Ron stared, unsure what to say. He'd heard rumors about Lady Zabini, but...

 

Harry's voice broke the moment.

 

“Ron, you getting in?” He couldn't see the Slytherin from where he was sitting. Ron was strangely relieved. 

 

“Yeah, I'm coming,” he said.

 

“See you around, Weasley,” said Zabini, and headed towards a different carriage where his friends no doubt waited. 

 

Ron stood still for another minute, before finally stepping up into the carriage where Neville and Harry were waiting. He was rattled, he wasn't afraid to admit that, but less by the thestral than he'd have expected to be. Blaise Zabini rattled him, because he thought he knew what the boy had meant about death changing people.

 

Death had certainly changed Harry.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay on this! Summer was swamped. Bluh. 
> 
> Also, ALL CREDIT for the Sorting Hat's song goes to my marvelous beta, Kindigo. I am the absolute worst at poetry, and she really wrote something excellent for me. ^___^

Harry sat at the end of the Gryffindor table that was furthest from the professors. He didn't feel like putting himself directly in sight of Professors Dumbledore or Snape. The way they both seemed to be watching for him as students filed into the Great Hall, the way their eyes followed him as he sat as far away from them as he could, and the way they looked away when they saw him notice.

 

Harry couldn't decipher Snape's expression to save his life, but Dumbledore's expression was clearly one of shame.

 

Hermione and Ginny came to sit by Harry, Ron, and Neville, having ridden up to the castle in a separate carriage with Luna. Harry spotted her pale head among the more average shades that populated the Great Hall.

 

It was strange to be back at Hogwarts, Harry though. Strange and...a little bit uncomfortable. Harry could see everyone glancing at him, and it made his skin prickle. Just like before the day in Diagon Alley, Harry was once again carrying the cloak with him everywhere. Unlike before, he was aware of it in a way that had nothing to do with it pressing physically against his back. He wanted nothing more than to pull it out and hide under it, escape the eyes of his classmates. Even the people who saw the most of him, the rest of Gryffindor, were casting glances his way with nothing short of awe on their faces.

 

The doors opened, and Professor McGonagall led in a line of shaky looking first years. Only a few looked as if they were at all prepared for Hogwarts, their spines straight and proud. Harry saw them look around, catch sight of him, and their faces tightened as if they had a goal in mind.

 

Harry stared back for several minutes, and nearly missed it when the Sorting Hat began to sing.

 

_You've failed to heed my warning in your pride._

_My duty is to Sort by Founders' creeds_

_The way they lived their lives has been my guide._

_But half a story only blindness breeds_

_Tonight I'll tell you how the Founders died._

_An army came upon the castle gate_

_Dear Hogwarts rang her pealing warning bell_

_The Founders knew that none escape this fate_

_And as each heard the echo of death's knell_

_Each also stood fast to their foes await.  
_

_Knight Gryffindor, beseiged and bled_

_refused to bend to hate or dread-_

_When those who'd followed where he led_

_Proved craven and with weak hearts fled-_

_He, knowing well what lay ahead_

_since all such flames are never fed,_

_Called up fiendish fire golden red._

_Though the pulsing beats of burning spread_

_The knight advanced with steady tread_

_and nobl'y bowed to his deathbed._

 

_On Hufflepuff the firelight shone_

_Her friends betrayed by those they'd known._

_The coming onslaught heard a groan_

_as down she pulled the castle stone._

_Entombed beneath the home she'd grown,_

_She set the traitors on their own_

_And from her self-hewn judgement throne,_

_Turned she deaf to every hungry moan_

_Watched them strip their kith and kin to bone_

_Until at last she died alone._

 

_Ravenclaw in dark shrouded air_

_breathed in a cloud of stale despair_

_She banished this with brilliant flare_

_of spellcraft wrought from deepest care_

_Still did the soulless hollow lovers dare_

_Enveloped they the lady fair,_

_their lipless mouths caressed her hair_

_with passioned kisses they laid her bare._

_When parted they from this brief affair_

_the lady was no longer there._

 

_Slytherin stood at Hogwarts' lake_

_He watched his foes his home betake._

_Turned he to one he'd not forsake_

_Asked her to cure this deep-felt ache:_

_The vengeful thirst he could not slake._

_Before her poison dreams could take_

_She vowed to right his last mistake_

_Then he lay to sleep beside his snake._

_If that promised day has yet to break_

_perhaps she may still there awake._

 

_You've heard now how the Founders met their ends_

_I think my meaning should be very clear:_

_No matter if you value wit or friends_

_Nor if what you detest is taint or fear_

_A tree leans west or south as it descends_

_but east or north they meet the selfsame ground._

_So regardless of my House decision_

_In facing true the darkness Most Profound_

_We must unite despite division_

_Lest we find ouselves to doom and ruin bound._

 

The silence in the hall was palpable. He wasn't sure that, next to him, Hermione was even breathing, and he could see the confusion and horror on his fellows' faces. Like last year, it seemed the Sorting Hat was doing its level best to tell the students that, regardless of house affiliation, they needed to work together, stand united else Hogwarts fall. But unlike the previous year, this time it seemed the Sorting Hat was being deadly serious. Harry supposed there was a reason that death was called the “great equalizer,” after all.

 

“That Hat's, er, in a bit of a mood,” said Ron, voice low. “I know Nearly Headless Nick said it's given warnings before, but that's a bit... _much_.”

 

“Did it seriously just imply that _Hufflepuff_ drove people to cannabilism...?” whispered Neville. No one seemed to want to answer him.

 

Hermione was frowning. “It's because we didn't pay its song any mind last year, we just kept on fighting amongst ourselves. We really _must_ do better this year, that's all there is to it. Where _is_ Nick, anyway?” she added, looking around.

 

Harry glanced around, realising as he did so that not only was Sir Nicholas missing, but in fact _none_ of the Hogwarts ghosts seemed to be present at the feast. However, he didn't have time to mention this curious fact to Hermione, as McGonagall had just begun to read off the names of the new first years, starting with “Andrews, Olivier,” who became a Ravenclaw. She took a seat at Luna's elbow.

 

The Sorting went quickly after that, and Harry almost managed to forget the grim tones of the Hat's song. “Azure, Aurelius” was a Ravenclaw as well, and then “Barton, Trinia” and “Braxton, Barneby” became Hufflepuffs, and so on down the line, with a scattering of all the houses, but significantly fewer in both Gryffindor and Slytherin. Harry wondered if parents had been warning their children that most of the trouble originated between those two sides.

 

Cadaceus, Michael was the first Gryffindor, and he was followed shortly by Columba, Demeter becoming the first Slytherin.

 

More than half-way through the alphabet, with still only a handful of students between those two houses, McGonagall was beginning to look a bit strained, wondering how to fix something she had no control over.

 

“Nix, Orpheus,” called McGonagall, her voice tight.

 

This was one of the children Harry had spotted eyeing him earlier, all pride and purpose as he marched towards the stool and put the hat on.

 

There was a long _long_ pause before the hat shouted “Gryffindor!” for the Hall to hear.

 

“That's interesting,” said Ron in Harry's ear. “The Nix family is usually Slytherin or Ravenclaw.”

 

“The name isn't familiar,” said Harry. “Only child?”

 

Ron frowned. “Not sure. Think so, though.”

 

“He's not,” said Hermione. “Or, rather, he wasn't. His older brother was a Seventh Year two years ago. He was killed in a dementor attack over the summer.” Harry went pale and watched as the small boy approached the Gryffindor table. He was making his way towards Harry's end with a determination that, frankly, frightened him.

 

Orpheus squeezed in right between Neville and Ginny who sat opposite Harry, causing them both to scoot to the sides.

 

“I'm Orpheus,” said the eleven-year-old.

 

“Er...” said Harry. “Harry Potter.”

 

“Obviously,” said the boy. “I saw you on Diagon, you know. I saw what happened, I mean.”

 

Harry didn't know how to respond to that. Ron was frowning down at the kid.

 

“Listen, we don't really want to think about what happened that day,” Ron snapped.

 

The little boy rolled his eyes. “And I don't want to think about what happened the day I got my Hogwarts letter, but not talking about a thing, not thinking about it, doesn't mean it hasn't still happened.”

 

“Ron didn't mean it like that,” said Harry. “But if you're looking for answers as to why I'm still sitting here talking to you, well, we don't have any. I don't know why I didn't die.”

 

“But you _did_ die,” said Orpheus, voice far too forceful for one so young. “I could never see thestrals before, and I wasn't there when my brother died. But I watched you get hit with that curse, and then stand back up and keep fighting. And then I saw that there are thestrals pulling the carriages for the upper years, and I knew I hadn't just been seeing things.”

 

Harry swallowed. “Sorry. I don't... I don't understand it, myself.” Orpheus was still frowning, still staring at Harry. “Sorry,” Harry said again. He looked around the table so as to appear occupied, and realized that Professor McGonagall had finished the Sorting and was putting the stool and hat away.

 

He also saw that the rest of the intense looking children from the line had all managed to get in Gryffindor, and all of them were sitting there, staring at him like hungry dogs, waiting for their kind master to drop them table scraps.

 

Harry was suddenly not hungry at all.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Three boys and two girls followed the Gryffindor prefects up to the tower that night. Five eleven year olds out of almost forty students. Slytherin hadn't fared much better, Harry noticed. Ron and Hermione were busy helping the first years, so Harry walked with Neville, who was as quiet as he was.

 

“Was the rest of your summer okay?” Neville asked abruptly. “I mean—I heard about Diagon, but, um...other than that?” He looked as if he regretted saying anything, and Harry shrugged.

 

“Okay, I suppose,” he said. “Did a lot of reading. We were organizing the library at headquarters.”

 

“Find anything interesting?” Neville's expression had lightened, looking relieved at such a safe topic as books.

 

Harry shattered that relief by pulling the dementor book out of the inner pocket of his robe, and handing it over. “This one has been pretty good,” he said. Neville tripped over his feet as he read the cover, and almost dropped it.

 

“H-has it?” he asked, voice tight and a bit too high.

 

Harry nodded and took the book back, not noticing Neville's discomfort. They stepped up through the portrait hole behind the long line of other students. Ron and Hermione had already directed the firsties towards their dormitories and claimed the sofa right in front of the fire, Ron was craning his neck over the heads of the crowd and, spotting Harry and Neville, beckoned them over.

 

Harry sank into the cushions with a sigh of relief. Even in Gryffindor Tower, people were still casting cautious looks in Harry's direction, but it was significantly better than the Great Hall had been, so Harry ignored his classmates and listened to his friends converse nearby. Ginny, done catching up with friends in her own year came and joined them, sitting on the edge of the fireplace. Through sleepy eyes, Harry thought it made her hair look as if it had caught fire.

 

A flash. Horrible, terrifying visions of Ginny, burning and burning, and screaming, and Harry couldn't do anything.

 

He jolted away from the back of the couch, aware that his heart was pounding so hard it hurt, and he could feel cold sweat all over his body. One of the lower years was standing near the arm of the sofa, looking at him with wide eyes. Harry stared back. She looked to be about third year, with wide-set blue eyes and dark hair. He thought her name might be Calliope, but he wasn't sure.

 

“Thank you!” she blurted out.

 

Harry blinked. “For what?” he asked.

 

“You saved my dad during the attack on Diagon. A Death Eater was hurting him, and he said you saved him.”

 

Harry went red, remembering. “Oh. Er, no problem,” he said, embarrassed. “Anyone would have done it, I just saw him first.”

 

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek before fleeing the common room to her dormitory.

 

Harry sat, stunned. He looked at his friends in confusion, and was unsurprised to see that they were trying hard not to grin at him. He rolled his eyes and leaned back, trying to pretend he'd never had the horrible mental image of Ginny like... _that_ , and trying to forget the little girl.

 

They stayed sitting near the fire until around eleven, before Neville pleaded exhaustion, and Ron agreed. The girls, too, were looking worn out, and so they all said good night and went their separate ways, yawning.

 

Harry followed Ron and Neville up to their room where Dean and Seamus were already asleep, but even after he was in pajamas, tucked into his comfortable four-poster with his invisibility cloak beneath his pillow, Harry couldn't sleep. He thought it was probably because he'd slept the whole train ride. Sighing, he listened to the sounds of his dorm mates breathing, and realized they were asleep already, and finally swung he feet back to the floor in defeat

 

He pulled his cloak out and swung it around his shoulders. Pulling the hood up over his head, he hesitated before toeing his slippers on and took the Marauders' Map from his trunk as silently as he could.

 

If he couldn't sleep, he would wander around until he was tired.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

One in the morning found Harry spread out across one of the study tables in the library, a small stack of books at his elbow, the Marauders' Map spread out nearby so he could see if any of the professors were coming, or if Filch the caretaker's cat, Mrs Norris, was lurking about nearby. So far, the halls had been empty—probably because none of the professors expected anyone to be out of bounds the very first night back—and Harry was finally beginning to grow tired. He picked up the few books he'd pulled out, and tried to put them back where he'd found them.

 

Pulling the invisibility cloak around himself, Harry crept back into the hallway, and made his way slowly back towards Gryffindor Tower, but it was an uneasy journey.

 

Hogwarts had never felt so...energized, at night, before. Harry kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting someone to be there. No one ever was, but he kept catching glimpses of what he thought were the Hogwarts ghosts flitting through walls, and it was making the hair on the back of his neck rise with his nerves.

 

Harry glanced at the map and saw Sir Nicholas's labeled dot just head, around the next corner. Harry quickened his pace, and saw Nearly Headless Nick just as Nick saw him. The ghost ducked through the wall as Harry appeared.

 

“Nick!” Harry said sharply. “Nick, wait!”

 

The ghost came slowly out of the stone and Harry pushed pack his hood so that he was just a head floating in midair.

 

“Ah, Harry,” said Nick, sounding sheepish. Harry frowned.

 

“What's going on, Nick? Are the ghosts spying on me for Dumbledore?”

 

Nick shook his head so hard that his almost-severed head nearly popped free of his ruff. “No, Harry. We wouldn't. No ghost has so much loyalty to to the headmaster.”

 

Harry let out a frustrated breath. “Then what's going on? I thought I was walking quietly, but every time I turn a corner, I catch sight of a ghost trying to...avoid me?”

 

Nick ran a nervous, pearly finger under the edge of his ruff, and straightened his doublet, clearly agitated. “I...don't know what to tell you, Harry. You've...changed, since last school year. We heard about what happened in Diagon Alley from the professors, and...it makes us nervous.”

 

Harry blinked, surprised. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry.”

 

“Nothing to apologize about, Harry. It...may just take some time for us to get comfortable around you again.”

 

“Oh,” said Harry again, and he nodded. “Yeah, all right. Thanks for explaining, Nick.”

 

“No trouble at all, Harry,” said Nearly Headless Nick, sounding a little bit sad to Harry. He turned and went back through the wall.

 

With a lot on his mind, Harry made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, and was finally worn out enough to sleep.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

He was in the forest again. He knew it by the scent, and by the feeling of light and rain on his bare skin. He was always naked in the forest.

 

Harry stood up and brought his invisibility cloak around himself, draping it over his shoulders. His head felt heavy and achy, and he rubbed at his scar with frustration. It was a sad thing, when even his dreams _not_ sent by Voldemort were filled with pain in his scar.

 

Although, he realized, since the attack on Diagon Alley, my scar hasn't hurt so much. Not at all, really. He frowned, and started walking.

 

In the forest dreams, Harry always started walking.

 

With the cloak on, even without the hood up, Harry was able to see the trees and grass, though they were pale and shining, more like ghosts of trees than living things. In the distance he could see what appeared to be albino thestrals tearing into a carcass. He hadn't realized that anything lived in the forest besides him. Harry looked down, and saw large animal tracks in the dewy flowers at his feet, paw prints nearly the size of bear tracks, but without those distinctive claw marks.

 

Harry had never seen those before. He followed them, and around him the trees grew larger, more imposing, and more faded.

 

All at once, Harry found he could go no further. The ground beneath his feet became insubstantial and fog-like, and suddenly Harry was falling, falling, and he never hit the ground, only faded away to a mere ghost of himself, like the trees.

 

Harry felt himself dissolve and turn to mist, and didn't mind.


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am SO sorry about the 10 month hiatus! D: Don't worry, this story isn't abandoned! Real life and school were a bit of a disaster this past year, but here's chapter nine at last. ^__^

 

Ron's voice woke him the next morning, and Harry groaned as he rolled out of bed. Summer never seemed long enough, even one as eventful and stressful as his had been. He was far from ready to return to classes, a sentiment he knew every single one of his classmates (with the obvious exception of Hermione) shared.

 

He dug through his trunk for one of his new uniform shirts and robes, grabbed the trousers he'd been wearing yesterday, found clean socks, and headed to the showers, hoping it would help him wake up a bit.

 

It did, but only marginally, and he headed down to the Great Hall with his friends, bleary eyed, with his head feeling foggy.

 

Professor McGonagall was passing out their class schedules as they sat down. Harry thought she looked as if she'd gotten as little sleep as he had. Further down the table, Harry saw Orpheus Nix watching him, from where he was sitting with the other first years. The one girl seemed to have taken the other, obviously muggleborn girl, under her wing, but the three boys all had that confident pureblood air about them, and were already apparently good friends. They were taking turns looking at Harry when they thought he wasn't looking, and Harry resolved to eat as quickly as he could.

 

“Oh, bloody hell,” said Ron, staring at his schedule. “Transfiguration first off. I haven't quite finished my summer course work...”

 

“Ron! You said you finished it last week!” Hermione was aghast.

 

“Eh...not exactly _finished_...” he admitted sheepishly.

 

“Come on,” said Harry. “Eat fast, and you can copy off mine.”

 

“ _Harry_!” snapped Hermione.

 

“Relax, Hermione. No one will know. I'll change the wording.” Ron said as he grabbed an egg and fried tomatoes, piling them on a piece of toast. Harry finished his pumpkin juice and stood as Ron did, not very hungry anyway. They left the Hall with Hermione's disapproving glare burning into their backs.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

“For the first several weeks of term,” said McGonagall to her Gryffindor Sixth Years, “we're going to be covering the very dangerous subject of human transfiguration. There is to be absolutely no foolish behaviour, as we will be dealing with magics that can permanently transform your bodies if wrongly applied.” The sharp tone and strict gaze she plied against the class ensured sharpest attention was paid.

 

Hermione already had a roll of parchment full of notes, just based on their summer reading, and was furiously taking down every word of warning Professor McGonagall spoke, no doubt so she could throw it back in Ron and Harry's faces when they were about to do something stupid and reckless. Well, she was in for disappointment, Harry decided. He wasn't planning on doing anything reckless or stupid. Not anytime soon. He had to keep himself safe and able to fight Voldemort, or else the war would never end. He thought Ron understood that, and would make the same decision.

 

That wasn't to say that Harry wasn't excited to start learning about animagi, which had almost a month dedicated to it, according to their syllabus. Unfortunately that wasn't until later in the year, and as with all other elements of transfiguration, they would be starting with smaller things, first, and working their way up.

 

She set them all to transfiguring their hair, primarily because hair was already dead, and the worst that could happen was a bad haircut. Each student was told to transfigure themselves a mirror out of a rock, which made Harry swallow. They'd never covered mirrors in class, and he wasn't sure he knew how...

 

Around him, every single girl and a fair number of the boys had already succeeded. Even Ron had managed a dingy looking mirror with a brass frame.

 

“Harry?” asked Hermione, looking at the rock that still sat in front of him. “Did you need help?”

 

“Erm...just explain to me how I'm supposed to do it?”

 

“It's like when we did metal last year. Reflectiveness is key. Silver nitrate or aluminium and glass, Harry. Nothing too complicated.”

 

He understood. All the little lessons were to teach small skills needed for bigger projects. Harry finally understood. He waved his wand, just as Professor McGonagall started over to see why he hadn't started yet.

 

His rock stretched and flattened, and developed a golden stand which supported the thin round mirror that formed. The stand looked a bit like tree branches, Harry thought.

 

“Interesting choice of embellishment, Mr. Potter,” said McGonagall, and she walked on.

 

It was a bit, Harry agreed, but in the end he quite liked it.

 

“Now that you all have your mirrors, point your wands at a lock of hair—not at your head. Pull your hair away from your scalp so you don't miss by mistake.” This had to be one of the most frustrating segments for McGonagall. Harry had seen his fair share of upper class men with strange things growing out of their heads for several days until either Madam Pomfrey managed to fix them up, or until the magic wore away. “For now, you will only attempt to alter the texture of your hair. If you have straight, aim for curls. If you have thick hair, aim for thin, and so on. You may begin.”

 

The rest of the period went slowly. Hermione managed to get her curly hair to go fine and straight, but only in places. Ron's simply looked as if he'd been electrocuted, all frizzy and full of static.

 

Harry's didn't seem to have changed at all, at least not so far as he could tell. Maybe it was a bit thicker?

 

Gathering up his things, Harry didn't think so. He turned the mirror back into a rock and placed it back in the box on McGonagall's desk. Following Ron and Hermione out of the classroom, Harry fought back yawns. Eventually, he and Ron had to part ways from Hermione as she went off towards Arithmancy, and they headed off to the North Tower for Divination.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

The Divination classroom was as full of incense and perfume as it ever was, and it had Harry's eyes tearing within minutes of climbing through the trap door. Parvati and Lavender had both already chosen seats near the front, Harry saw, and Neville had saved them a seat near the back. Grateful, Harry and Ron made their way around cushy chairs and pillows to sit with Neville.

 

“You ready for another year of making up dream journals and pretending to see things in crystal balls?” whispered Ron.

 

“My inner eye tells me that this year's 'predictions' will be even more filled with danger and gore than last year's,” Harry whispered back.

 

The three of them snickered into their sleeves as Professor Trelawney passed out candles to everyone, made of undyed beeswax.

 

“Today,” she said in her most mystic voice. “We begin the study of two of the most difficult forms of divination. We shall use these candles for both Pyromancy, and afterwards for Ceromancy. As with all methods of Divination, not all who seek the knowledge are gifted in those areas. Some of the greatest seers our world has seen could use only one method, so fear not, for the fact that you have stayed with the class as long as you have indicates deep seated interests in the Art, and I sense that many of you have simply yet to unlock your medium. Perhaps today might unlock the future for a select few...”

 

Harry flipped through his copy of Unfogging the Future. Pyromancy was fairly obvious—pyro as in fire, so divining through fire—but he had no idea what Ceromancy was, and Professor Trelawny tended to just assume that everyone had done the assigned readings...which most of her class had not.

 

“Melting or dripping wax?” he read aloud. Neville leaned over his shoulder to look.

 

“Great. I'll never be able to look at a candle the same way again.”

 

Ron, also looking at the definition over Harry's shoulder, snorted. “Never again a mere candle, young Neville, but a doorway into the unknown future!” His Trelawny impression was spot on, and they dissolved into helpless snickering again.

 

By the time class let out, Harry was feeling uncomfortably light-headed, and descended the ladder with relief. As they began to make their way back towards the main part of the castle, Ron suddenly sighed.

 

“I'll meet you guys at lunch,” he said. “I have to go get my healing potions from Madam Pomfrey.”

 

“You're still taking those?” asked Harry. Ron nodded.

 

“Until at least Halloween, I think. Ah, well. I should at least be able to have pumpkin pie at the Halloween feast...”

 

Neville frowned, confused.

 

“He can't have pumpkin,” Harry explained. “One of the potions disagrees with it.” Neville nodded, frown clearing up.

 

They split up, Ron heading off towards the hospital wing, and Neville and Harry heading towards the Great Hall. They got to the doors just as Hermione did. She had that “hooray, I'm learning!” look on her face, so it was with caution that Harry asked about her Arithmancy class.

 

“Oo, it was splendid!” she said, pouring herself a glass of pumpkin juice. “Professor Vector announced a possible class outing for later in the term—though, of course, it depends on whether or not the dementors have been brought back under control—and we're starting right off with the Chaldean Method this term, which is really fascinating, considering how different from the Agrippan Method it is, which is what we've been using up until now...”

 

Harry sighed, and tuned her out. She'd have to slow down eventually so that she could actually eat some lunch, but until then he was resigned to just nodding now and then and making interested sounds until she stopped talking.

 

Ron joined them about twenty minutes into lunch, and promptly tore into several sandwiches, one after another. He gladly accepted the teapot when Harry passed it to him, and didn't notice Hermione's disgusted expression until two whole sandwiches had already been decimated.

 

“Sorry,” he said. “The healing potions I'm taking leave me starving. Madam Pomfrey said they nearly double my metabolism for about an hour after being swallowed.”

 

“Still, Ron,” said Hermione. “Manners aren't some impossible thing. I know your mother taught them to you. Use them.”

 

Ron sighed, and tried to slow down, with only minimal success.

 

After lunch, they all four headed up to History of Magic, walking part of the way with Ginny before she headed off to Transfiguration. Harry pulled the door open, holding it for his friends, and slipped in behind them to find a seat in the back of the room, where he could hopefully get a nap in. He wanted to go flying after classes, and needed to be rested up after his late night excursion.

 

The clock ticked up to class time, and Professor Binns, who had never been late before, not even delayed by his own death, was nowhere to be seen. Harry and his classmates exchanged confused looks, waiting. Fifteen minutes passed, and Harry grew more concerned. Could something have happened to the ghost professor?

 

“Maybe...maybe I should go get Professor Dumbledore,” he said softly, and Ron and Hermione nodded.

 

“Might be a good idea,” said Neville softly.

 

Harry got up and left the classroom, his bag slung over his shoulder, and made his way towards the Headmaster's office despite his personal misgivings.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

It seemed to be Harry's own private curse that he never knew which candy the Headmaster was using when he needed to visit. As luck would have it, however, he guessed it on the fifth try (“Ice mice!”), and quickly went up the winding stairs to the Headmaster's office door, and knocked.

 

“Come in,” said Albus Dumbledore, and Harry pushed the door open.

 

Dumbledore looked quite surprised to see him. “Harry, my dear boy. And on the first day of term, too. What can I do for you?”

 

“Erm,” said Harry. “I'm supposed to be in History of Magic right now, and...”

 

Something was wrong in the room. Harry swallowed, feeling stifled and overheated for the first time in weeks. Something was horribly wrong with the air in the headmaster's office.

 

“And...?” prompted Professor Dumbledore, seemingly unaware of the strangeness in his office.

 

“Oh, um...and Professor Binns didn't show up. We waited fifteen minutes, and he never showed. So...I thought you should know.”

 

Professor Dumbledore looked stunned. “Cuthbert has _never_ not shown up to his classes!”

 

“Right, exactly,” said Harry. The wrongness he was feeling was coming from Professor Dumbledore's desk, or the Professor himself, Harry was sure of it. He was beginning to break out in a clammy cold sweat as if he was running a high fever.

 

“Did you think to check your map for him, Harry?”

 

Harry started, distracted as he'd been by his discomfort. “Er, no sir. I don't generally carry it to classes.”

 

Dumbledore nodded, and turned to the portraits on the wall. “Would you spread the word that Professor Binns seems to be missing?” he asked them. “Report back to me when he is found.”

 

Nodding, the portraits all vanished from their frames.

 

“Tea while we wait, I think,” said Professor Dumbledore, and waved his wand to conjure a set.

 

Feeling glazed and sick, Harry watched the sweep of the wand through the air as if hypnotized. And then he noticed the professor's hand.

 

“Professor Dumbledore, your hand!” he exclaimed, unable to stop himself.

 

It was blackened and twisted looking, as if decaying, and the air around it seemed to be humming and angry.

 

Professor Dumbledore followed Harry's gaze. “Ah, yes,” he said softly. “I'm afraid I stumbled into a cursed artifact over the summer, and we've yet to find a counter curse. Professor Snape has been most helpful in trying to break the curse, along with Mr. William Weasley, but, alas...”

 

Harry swallowed. “It...looks painful.”

 

“It is, but Madam Pomfrey is a very capable medi-witch, and has been keeping mild pain draughts on hand for me.” He smiled at Harry. “It is nothing I cannot stand, Harry, I promise.”

 

Harry swallowed. “Is that where that...the wrongness, sir. Is it coming from the curse?” He was hesitant to ask, but maybe Dumbledore had simply grown used to the weird feeling in the air, if he was living with the curse.

 

But Dumbledore looked surprised and a bit worried as he looked back at Harry. “Wrongness, Harry? I'm not sure what you mean.”

 

“There's...er...there's something wrong about the air around your desk, sir. It's a sort of smothering feeling...”

 

Well, if the Headmaster hadn't thought him mad before, he'd certainly be having doubts now, Harry thought.

 

“And...you've never felt this in my office before?”

 

“Erm...maybe a bit at the end of last year, but...I was pretty out of it, sir, so...I don't really remember clearly. Everything felt strange, then.”

 

“Harry, I'm going to place a few objects out on the desk, some of which are currently cursed, some that were previously cursed, and some that have never been cursed. Would you please see if you can identify the three groups for me?”

 

Harry nodded, and Dumbledore moved around his office gathering up several small objects and placing them before Harry.

 

There was nothing particularly spectacular about any of them, that Harry could tell, except for a strange ornate ring, a bit gaudy to Harry's eye. Harry felt as if it were reaching out for him, calling him nearer. He leaned back, scared of his own impulse to act on that call.

 

He shook his head and shrugged, meeting the headmaster's eye. “Sorry, sir. The only one that seems any different from the rest is that ring,” he said, pointing.

 

One of the silver instruments on the shelf behind Dumbledore's shattered. The headmaster picked up the ring (Harry hesitated to think of it as _snatched_ but it was an awfully sharp movement, really) and tucked it away in a drawer.

 

“That ring is an object of intense magical power. I'm not surprised that you could sense it, Harry,” said Professor Dumbledore, but Harry thought he might be lying. “Care to do another set of objects while we wait?”

 

Harry hesitated, but then nodded. This time the Headmaster had him close his eyes as he gathered and laid out the items. Opening them again, Harry was presented with a different set of small artefacts, including several wands, one of which he thought might actually be the headmaster's. In fact, of them all, that was the only thing before him which resonated the same way the ring had.

 

Harry looked up at the headmaster, and wondered what the trick was. There was some sort of test being done, something Dumbledore was looking for, or expecting...but what?

 

Harry decided to lie.

 

“Sorry, sir. I'm not sensing anything from any of these things,” he said, and made sure he was avoiding Dumbledore's gaze as he said it, looking innocently back at the objects on the table. What Dumbledore didn't know wouldn't hurt Harry, after all.

 

Just then one of the portraits returned, denying the Headmaster the opportunity to challenge Harry's claim.

 

“Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor Binns is in his classroom. The students said he arrived just minutes after Mr. Potter left.”

 

“Ah, excellent. He must have simply lost track of the time. Harry, my boy, why don't you return to your class, then, and have Professor Binns come visit me when classes end for the day.”

 

Harry nodded, picked up his book bag, and left feeling extremely uncomfortable in his own skin, and as if he'd forgotten something important in the headmaster's office.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Harry didn't know how to react when, upon his entrance in the History of Magic classroom, Professor Binns gasped and fled through the blackboard. Harry froze in the doorway as all of his classmates turned to stare.

 

What Nearly Headless Nick had said came suddenly rushing back to Harry, and he groaned. “I'll just...leave, shall I?” He asked. “Hermione, have Binns see Dumbledore after classes end for the day, okay?”

 

She nodded, looking concerned, and Harry left the room again, pausing to listen at the door. A few minutes later, Binns' droning voice picked back up, and Harry sighed, not sure what to do with himself for the next twenty minutes until his class period was officially out. Eventually, he decided to head to the library, figuring Hermione at least would think to look for him there.

 

Not quite sure what to look for, Harry found himself in the section on ghosts and the undead. In fact, there seemed to be a lot of books about wizarding funeral practices, too, which sort of unnerved Harry. He'd never been to a funeral before, at least not that he could remember (and of course they hadn't been able to hold one for Sirius), but with the war going the way it was, he was fairly certain he'd have to attend at least one before Voldemort was defeated. The question always came down to _whose_?

 

Morbid thoughts running rampant, Harry took two books off the shelves—one on ghosts themselves, and one on funeral rites of Wizarding Britain—and started flipping through pages.

 

The one on ghosts was very dry and academic, full of theories about where ghosts came from, why they didn't “move on” and so on. Harry was very quickly bored by it, and so moved on to the other book. He was surprised to find it organized by family names, and so skimmed ahead looking for Potter.

 

He found it, and started reading, curious despite himself. Had his parents been buried like this? His grandparents?

 

 _The most important part of a Potter family burial, Harry read, is the drawing back of the silver cloth from the deceased's body. This ritual is usually performed at the wake, though in recent generations, the cloth is sometimes draped over the casket rather than the body. This is thought to be in reference to the family's supposed Peverell ties (see:_ PEVERELL _) which claim to be the self same Peverells of the well known Beedle the Bard tale, “The Three Brothers”._

_After the drawing back of the cloth, the oldest child of the deceased (or nearest sibling if there are no children) recites..._

 

It was eery, Harry decided, to be reading up on one's family funeral traditions. After all, he had no intention of dying any time soon, and who knew if he even could, anyway? It's not like people hadn't tried to kill him before with no success.

 

Harry closed the book.

 

He didn't want Hermione and Ron to find him with either of the two books, he decided. They might get the wrong ideas about his mental state, and he wouldn't want that. He put them back, and went over to the magical sports section, finding a book on quidditch. He was pretty sure he'd read it before, but it had been a while. A reread in preparation for the coming quidditch season was always a good idea.

 

A short while later, Ron and Hermione found him there, a few chapters into the book, reading up on Seeker maneuvers.

 

“Hey, mate, what did Dumbledore say, anyway?” asked Ron, sitting across from Harry.

 

“Erm. Didn't say too much, really. Seemed pretty shocked, though. Have you seen his hand?”

 

“Yes, it looks terrible,” said Hermione, as Ron shook his head.

 

“Wait, what's wrong with it?” asked the redhead.

 

“Said he ran into a cursed object, or something. They can't fix it, and he's got your brother helping _and_ Snape.”

 

“You'd think, between the two of them, that they'd be able to break a curse pretty quickly, wouldn't you...” said Hermione thoughtfully. “It must be a dreadfully powerful curse—or a dreadfully dark one, I suppose.”

 

Harry nodded. “I think he's been trying to keep the hand more or less out of sight, so as not to worry people, but he couldn't do much to hide it when I was sitting three feet from him, you know?”

 

“Well, Bill can break any curse,” said Ron confidently. “Just give him enough time. He didn't get Best Young Cursebreaker in University for nothing, you know!”

 

“Wizards have universities?” asked Harry, distracted. Both Ron and Hermione stared at him.

 

“Of course!” said Hermione. “What did you _think_ wizards and witches did for further education?”

 

Harry honestly had never thought about it before. With the Dursleys, it had been quite clear that they weren't going to pay for a university education for him, so he'd never put much thought or effort into school until Hogwarts, but even then apprenticeships had seemed more the sort of thing to expect from Wizarding society.

 

“Bloody hell, Harry,” said Ron. “What were you planning to do if you weren't planning on going to University?”

 

“Erm...dunno, really.”

 

“Bill and Charlie both went,” said Ron. “That's part of why we don't have much money, you know? Percy would have, but he got that Ministry job straight off. Fred and George didn't really graduate Hogwarts, so they probably won't go, plus Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes is doing really well. But Mum and Dad will definitely expect me and Ginny to go.”

 

“I thought wizards did apprenticeships, or something else kind of old fashioned...”

 

“Oh, well,” Ron shrugged. “For certain fields, yeah, you do. Or field schools. There's a three-year training program for the Aurors, you know, and they call that an apprenticeship, though it's not a traditional sort.”

 

“Really, Harry, you should have known all about this from your meeting with Professor McGonagall last year.” said Hermione, sounding frustrated at Harry's lack of knowledge.

 

“Yeah, well, my meeting was a bit hampered by Umbridge sitting in, remember?”

 

Hermione blinked. “Oh. Well, then I suppose that makes sense... Still, there are any number of books written to introduce muggleborns to the Wizarding World...”

 

Harry sighed, knowing this was one of those conversations he wasn't going to win. “Hagrid never mentioned them, when he was showing me around Diagon Alley,” he said with a shrug. “But then, he kind of was under the impression that I should already know about the Wizarding World in general. It probably slipped his mind.”

 

“But there was a list of titles included with your Welcome to the Magical World pamphlet!”

 

“My what?”

 

“The Ministry pamphlet that comes with every muggleborn's first Hogwarts letter.”

 

Harry frowned. “I was probably listed as a halfblood because both my parents were magical, Hermione. I didn't get a pamphlet. Nearly didn't get my letter, either. My aunt and uncle tried to keep it from me.”

 

Hermione gaped. “But...but that's terrible! I mean, sure, my parents thought it was a terrific joke at first, but Hogwarts always sends a professor by within a few days to prove to muggle parents that magic is real...”

 

“Well, theoretically,” snapped Harry, “they thought my aunt would have told me, since her sister was a witch. They just forgot to take into account that the Dursleys are terrible people!”

 

“Mr. Potter!” Madam Pince was suddenly looming over their table, glaring down at him. “There will be _quiet_ in my library, or _you_ will _not_ be in it! Understand?”

 

“Yes, Ma'am,” Harry muttered. She stalked away, and Harry glared at the book in front of him, so as to not take his anger at his relatives out on his friends.

 

“Sorry, Harry,” Hermione murmured.

 

He shrugged. “It's fine.” He stood up and went to put the quidditch book away without another word. When he came back to the table, Hermione had taken out her Transfiguration homework.

 

“You know that's not due till Thursday, right?” he asked, sitting down next to her.

 

“Yes, well, we'll have more homework tomorrow, won't we. If we get things done now, there's less to do in the evening.”

 

As usual, neither boy could fault her logic. They pulled their own Transfiguration homework out, and let Hermione explain the finer points to them in plainer English than their textbook used, before they headed out to the grounds for an hour or two before dinner.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

At just before eleven that night, the four Gryffindors headed up to the astronomy tower, following Seamus and Dean at a distance, and with Lavender and Parvati a short ways behind them. No one really liked having to go to class in the middle of the night, but they were all thankful that it was only once a week.

 

Harry shuddered, feeling as if the tower was especially cold that night, and pulled his cloak tighter. He almost wished he'd thought to bring his scarf, but it couldn't be helped. Honestly, who needed their scarf in September?

 

He set up his telescope with numb hands, and directed it where Professor Sinistra said to, not really very interested in what such-and-such comet was doing that night. Honestly, of all his classes, Astronomy seemed the biggest waste of time. He could understand taking Herbology, or Theory of Magic—even History of Magic was somewhat useful—but when would anyone actually use Astronomy in daily life?

 

Hermione probably knew how people used it in daily life, actually, but Harry wasn't going to ask any time soon.

 

It felt like the longest hour of his life, but eventually Sinistra stopped lecturing and let them trudge back to Gryffindor Tower. Ron was grumbling nearby.

 

“Down one flight of stairs, up another. Bloody stupid class, Astronomy...” Groans of agreement from their classmates echoed in the hallway.

 

For once, even Hermione was too tired to defend schoolwork.

 

Back in his room at last, Harry pulled the invisibility cloak from under his robe and placed it beneath his pillow before changing into his pajamas. Still shivering from the cold of the astronomy tower, he pulled an extra quilt from the linen cupboard in the corner of the room, and wrapped up in it before climbing—quilt and all—under his covers.

 

Well, he was almost warm, in any case. It would have to do.

 


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, guys, I am SO sorry about the long wait! This chapter is unedited, but I didn't want to wait any longer. :/ 
> 
> In other news, a friend and I are working on a side project related to this story. Next chapter, hopefully I'll have more details for you all, but right now I'm pretty excited about it... ^___^

The next morning, a Tuesday, was Harry's first Potions class, and he was privately dreading it. Snape had looked sour as ever at every meal so far, though the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor seemed a jovial enough sort, and kept trying to talk to Professor Snape. Harry hoped he knew his subject, or else he might find himself cursed into oblivion by the irate Potions Master.

 

It was something of a shock, therefore, when directly after breakfast Harry found himself in the Potions classroom with the cheery Professor Slughorn who was _not_ , it turned out, there to teach Defense after all. Which meant, Harry realized, that Professor Snape must have gotten the job he so desperately coveted.

 

He sighed, but was glad that he didn't have to deal with Snape _quite_ so soon after waking up, at least.

 

Slughorn turned out to be just as he appeared—an older, generally chipper person, who liked to talk about all the people he'd supposedly helped to greatness. In a lot of ways, he reminded Harry of Gilderoy Lockheart, but Slughorn was significantly less obnoxious. Harry was actually able to gain something from the lecture, too, which was a first. Normally he took what notes he could, tried to follow the instructions, and then went to Hermione for help understanding what Snape hadn't explained—namely, everything.

 

Horace Slughorn, on the other hand, gave a very detailed lecture the first half of double potions, and only let them start brewing after they'd gone over the process for the potion twice. For someone like Hermione, who inherently seemed to understand _everything_ , it was no doubt repetitive and a bit dull, Harry thought, but it helped him immensely.

 

That thought worried him for a moment. If he understood potions so well just because of the way it was explained, maybe he wouldn't do well in Defense Against the Dark Arts this year, after all. Maybe it was Snape's teaching method that was the problem.

 

 _No,_ he thought. _If that were the case, I wouldn't have been able to teach the DA last year, because of Umbridge's 'teaching' methods. I can do Defense._

 

He could do potions, too, and he decided then and there to never let a teacher stand between him and something he could do ever again.

 

There wasn't as much he could do about Draco Malfoy, however.  


Potions with the Slytherins was always a heart-pounding, potentially life-threatening class period, but it was well established fact that Harry's year was among the most volatile. Harry knew from the moment he realized that Potions was once again with the Slytherins that Malfoy would try to finish what he'd started on Diagon Alley, through any means possible. Harry's potion was just about ready to be bottled, finishing with a very nice shade of green, albeit not the same perfect sage that Hermione had achieved, when his cauldron suddenly plopped. Harry had thrown a fillibuster firework or two in potions class to recognize the sound.

 

“Down!” he yelled, grabbing his potions book as a shield. The DA members reacted instantly, all taking similar positions of shelter under their desks, but despite his second of forewarning, Harry still caught the brunt of the explosion, his book getting the worst of it.

 

“Mr Malfoy!” shouted Professor Slughorn, and for once Harry wasn't on the receiving end of a lecture about safety precautions in a potions lab. It seemed Slughorn was sharper than he let on, and had spotted Malfoy tossing the firework. Harry had simply gotten the warning out faster.

 

Professor Slughorn released the class a few minutes early, and Malfoy left with a detention, which made Harry's opinion of Slughorn go up another notch.

 

“Ah, Mr Potter, stay a moment, would you?”

 

Harry hesitated in the door. “Sir, I have Defense next and Professor Snape...”

 

“I was just going to suggest you take one of the spare text books from the cupboard. I notice yours is quite ruined.” Harry looked at the soggy, stained remains of his potions text and sighed. “You'll need it for your homework, after all,” Slughorn continued. Harry nodded and went to the cupboard and pulled out the only copy that seemed to have all its pages, and minimal staining. Someone seemed to have scribbled in the margins of quite a few pages, but that couldn't be helped.

 

He turned back towards the door and found Professor Slughorn watching him still. He stared back.

 

“That was very impressive reaction time, Harry. And your classmates, they seem used to you shouting commands at them.”

 

“Er, well, last year we had a defense club. I taught it sometimes...” He tucked the new potions text into his bag, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “Sorry, sir, but I should really get going. Snape won't like it if I'm late to his first class of the year. He doesn't like me much.”

 

“Quite marvelous, really, the level of authority you seem to have over your year mates. Very impressive qualities in a young man of your age, Harry, my boy. Very impressive. You know, I occasionally have little gatherings in my office—a club of sorts, and—“

 

“Er,” Harry interrupted. “Not to be rude, Professor, but I really do have to go to Defense Against the Dark Arts, now...”

 

“Oh! Yes, by all means!” said Slughorn, waving Harry away with small shooing motions. Harry tucked his borrowed Potions text into his bag and hurried out, daring to hope that he wouldn't be late for Defense, if it was indeed Snape teaching it.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

It was with trepidation that Harry neared the Defense classroom in the main tower of the castle, somewhere above the Great Hall. Even from outside the door he could hear Snape's distinctive voice snarling at someone who had probably _not_ done anything to diverse it. The class period hadn't even started yet, but Snape didn't seem bothered. He was probably taking points for breathing too loudly, or something.

 

Harry sighed and opened the door. The bell rang just as he was stepping through, and Professor Snape turned his cold eyes on Harry, sneering.

 

“Five points from Gryffindor for your tardiness, Mr Potter.”

 

Harry didn't respond, because he had been expecting no less. He caught Ron's eye just as his friend was about to protest on his behalf, and shook his head ever so slightly. He took a seat next to Neville, as Ron and Hermione were already paired up, and tried to draw as little attention to himself as he could.

 

“This year, I shall be teaching Defense a sight differently than it has been taught in previous years,” said Snape, and though his voice was soft, he possessed that rare quality of presence that could steal attention from the sun in the sky, if only he put his mind to it. “It is often said, but no less true for that, that 'the best defense is a good offense.' Hogwarts does not emphasize this idea. I, however,” said Snape, still using that low tone and deadly intensity he was so known for, “intend to capitalize upon it. You had best prepare yourselves for a brutal year. If you can't keep up, you _will_ wind up dead before this war is over.”

 

Despite himself, Harry thought it sounded by far the most promising Defense class since Lupin's.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

It was a Defense class unlike any Harry had ever attended before. His DA meetings had sometimes been tense and there had been minor injuries a time or two, but Snape's Defense Against the Dark Arts class left most of the students with scrapes and bruises with only a few exceptions.

 

It began with pairing up and casting at one another until someone missed a block. But then Snape had demanded they keep sparring even with the hex or curse still in place. Harry suspected early on that Snape was mostly interested in assessing their abilities, and he was proud that his DA members (most of the class, honestly) were really holding their own, and definitely doing better than Snape had expected them to. Nearly twenty minutes later, Harry and Neville were the last pair to be allowed to return to their seats, because while Harry had managed to land a few blows (Neville had broken Harry's shield charm a handful of times, but never actually got a spell through _to_ Harry), both of them were determined to keep going until either Snape found nothing to criticize, or their magic ran out. Harry knew which one they both expected to happen first.

 

“Enough!” Snape had snarled at last, and both boys had returned to their desks sweating and shaky, and Neville oozing puss from where Harry's last hex had hit him, but otherwise feeling almost triumphant.

 

What had followed had been an in-class essay about how the rest of the students in the class (not their _own_ pair) had fared, who had been hit with what by whom, who would have survived the “battle” etc. Harry had to dredge his memory, but realized he actually knew most of the answers Snape wanted without having to try very hard. He'd been very aware of what the other students in the room had been doing, probably a result of his instructing the DA, he thought. He'd learned to watch multiple groups at once, so that he could see who needed help, but the same skills obviously applied in a proper fight, as well, though Harry had never thought of it that way before.

 

 _Time I started, though,_ he thought, and clenched his teeth in resolve, and added a concluding statement about how valuable that awareness could be, and how he himself might have been more careful and aware in the past, such as in Diagon Alley over the summer.

 

“Time is up!” said Snape, and their parchments went skidding off their desks, more than one with long streaks of ink as they were pulled out from beneath someone's desperately still-scribbling quill.“Expect similar activities on Friday,” he said as the bell began to ring. “If everyone's performance does not improve from today, there will be consequences.”

 

Harry sighed, hearing the ominous note on that last word, and dreading what it might mean.

 

Once they were safely outside the classroom, Ron groaned audibly. “I used to _like_ Defense,” he complained.

 

“And just think,” said Neville, looking at his class schedule. “Friday is a double period.” Everyone slumped at that, groaning again.

 

They headed down towards the study hall, where they had an hour to go before lunch. Harry thought of his invisibility cloak, pressed warm and reassuring against the small of his back, and an idea struck him.

 

“Does anyone know when the Slytherin sixth years have Defence?” he asked, digging around in his bag for his own schedule.

 

“I think right after lunch, actually,” said Dean. “Heard one of them talking about it in Potions. They're looking forward to having Snape as Defence teacher.”

 

“I reckon they think he's gonna secretly teach 'em Dark Arts, right under Dumbledore's nose,” added Seamus, tone grim.

 

“He can't,” said Ron.

 

“He _wouldn't!_ ” said Hermione.

 

“He might,” said Harry, but privately suspected that it would be all to maintain his cover as a Death Eater, not because he particularly wanted to send his favourite students to a life of slavery and torture—the same life he had himself left. He gave Ron and Hermione a look. “I want to find out if he's teaching them the same way he's teaching us. We'll start the DA back up if we have to. If they're covering more advanced things, especially. I can see him trying to give them an advantage on their end of term exams for _sure_.”

 

“Well, we won't let 'im!” said Seamus, full of spirit and righteous anger at the mere thought. “We'll trounce 'em. At quidditch, in grades—everything!”

 

The group laughed. Across the room, a group of Ravenclaws sharing the space looked up and frowned, save for one pair of pale blue eyes which lit up as their owner detached herself from the rest of her house mates.

 

Luna sat down right next to Harry, smiling widely.

 

“Your hair looks very nice today, Harry,” she said, and opened up her Transfiguration book. Harry, paging through the chapter on self transformations in his own, still searching for his schedule, grinned wryly. His hair was still a bit thicker, more coarse, from his Transfiguration lesson the day before.

 

“Yours too, Luna,” he said, noticing that she had a copy of the sixth year text, rather than the fifth year text she was supposed to have.

 

“Are you that far ahead in your classes, Luna?” asked Hermione, looking a bit stricken.

 

“Sometimes,” said Luna, and she turned another page, pointed her wand at the ends of her hair, and incanting softly. The ends turned a shade of blue identical to the blue in her House crest. “Definitely today, it seems. Maybe I'll be behind, tomorrow.” She looked up at Harry's hair again, head tilted.

 

Harry found his schedule, and spread it out on top of his Transfiguration notes, looking it over and finding the hour Dean thought was Slytherin Defence.

 

“I have a free period,” he said, and started to grin.

 

“Free period?” asked Ron. “What class do you have _after_ lunch? I'm all but done for the day!”

 

Luna reached up to pet Harry's hair. Harry gently took her wrist and moved her hand away, ignoring his friends' snickering.

 

“Um,” he said, pretending it hadn't happened, “Ghoul Studies?” It came out a question. “When did I sign up for Ghoul Studies? Where is that even _taught_?”

 

“You must have signed up for it after the Department of Mysteries,” said Hermione, voice gentle. “You _were_ a bit out of it, then. Maybe you just don't remember. The course description is really very interesting. You might enjoy it...” but she sounded doubtful.

 

“It sounded grim as hell, Harry,” said Seamus. “Me mam is all into those sorts of spooky things. Not my sort of thing a'tall, though.”

 

Harry sighed, resigned. Luna reached up and started petting his hair again.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Lunch was uneventful, and Harry left early. His friends, having some idea as to what he intended, let him, though Hermione looked nervous, and Ron kept stalling, as though he were worried for Harry's safety.

 

“Relax, Ron,” he said finally. “I'll be under the cloak. No one will even know I'm there, least of all Snape.”

 

“Yeah, but Malfoy _was_ trying to kill you in Diagon!”

 

“You _could_ press charges about that, you know, Harry,” said Hermione suddenly.

 

Harry shook his head. “My word against his, and we have a well known rivalry. Bet you anything he'd say he thought I was a Death Eater—I did have a hood and cloak on in the middle of summer—”

 

“It was _red_ though!”

 

“Won't matter. The Malfoys probably keep lawyers on retainer. It's only this past spring that Mr Malfoy hasn't been able to talk himself out of a tight spot.” Harry shrugged and stood. “I'll be _fine_. Malfoy won't know I'm there any more than Snape will.”

 

His friends were resigned, but gave up and let him walk away at last.

 

Harry slipped into the space behind a suit of armour and pulled out the invisibility cloak. Making sure it had him entirely covered, Harry crept out again and went up to the Defence classroom, relieved to find it entirely deserted.

 

After a short wait, Slytherin sixth years began to trickle in, some looking far more excited than others. Blaise Zabini sat at the back of the room, and looked bored, while Crabbe and Goyle (Harry was shocked to realize they had facial expressions besides “HUNGRY!” and “CRUSH!”) sat right up front, saving a place for Malfoy between the two of them. Theodore Nott sat somewhere in the middle, and the girls sat mostly to the middle or back of the class. Considering Harry only knew of _one_ female Death Eater, he thought they probably expected to stay home and make little Pureblood babies, rather than fight themselves. Millicent Bulstrode sat near Zabini, and a girl whose last name he thought was Moon sat by her. The three of them took the furthest row from the front, right near Harry's hiding spot between two of the bookshelves that lined the walls.

 

Professor Snape swept into the room just as the bell rang, and Draco Malfoy came in almost two minutes later, but Snape never said a word. Harry, safely unseen beneath his cloak, rolled his eyes.

 

“Welcome,” said Snape, “to Defence Against the Dark Arts. Some of you may be here with a mistaken impression about just what that means for you as Slytherins. You should know now that it means absolutely nothing different than it means for any of the other Houses in Hogwarts. We are under the Headmaster's control in this castle, and as such there are certain... _rules_...which must be followed. Am I understood?”

 

It was clear that they did. Harry might be able to talk to snakes, but he was no expert at Slytherin-speak; even so, it was clear as day that Snape was warning his students off overtly dark spells and expectations of midnight Dark Arts tutoring sessions. Those things had never happened for them before Snape was teaching Defence, they weren't going to happen now. Harry sighed, and wasn't sure if he was sighing in relief or disappointment.

 

In the end, the Slytherins paired up just as the Gryffindors had, and faced off, casting spell after spell. Malfoy got paired with Zabini, and neither boy looked pleased, Harry was interested to notice. He'd never thought much about how Malfoy's housemates viewed him, and was starting to see it wasn't so clear-cut as he would have expected.

 

The other thing Harry noticed was that the spells the Slytherins were casting were far more dangerous than what the Gryffindors had used. None were dark, obviously, not after Snape's blatant warning, but there were many borderline or grey spells that had Harry concerned.

 

They were also faster than the Gryffindors. There was the sense that this was a routine form of practice among them, this blind casting, a trading off of spells, one after another. It was a bit like formal duelling, Harry knew, the back and forth casting, and he wondered if maybe they'd had duelling lessons at home since they were small, because they had that air of practiced boredom that Malfoy had mastered by the age of eleven. Harry watched as they shouted hexes and curses, and insults in an attempt to distract their partner.

 

A few times, the bookshelves got hit, and Harry had to put his arms up to ward off falling books. They might have speed to their advantage, but Harry's DA students had practiced more with accuracy. There'd been fewer misses in the Gryffindor class period. The Slytherins were lazy with their spells.

 

Harry kept as close to the wall as he could, but every now and then he couldn't help but lean forward in fascination as one of the students cast something he'd never heard of before, or used an old spell in a new way. Zabini, especially, seemed to have mastered the use of one that made the caster go strangely insubstantial for a few seconds. It was one of the most effective "shield" charms Harry could think of, because the strength of the caster's shield was never brought into question. The spell simply went through the person, harmless.

 

 _Probably not the Unforgivables, though,_ Harry thought, trying to keep that in mind as he made note of the wand motion, and strained his ears to catch the incantation. He thought he had heard it correctly, and filed the word away to look up later, just to be sure.

 

They were good, these Slytherins, but Harry thought that Snape was displeased at the end of their practical portion. He was scowling, anyway, which as a rule he did less often around Slytherins. He had them sit down and write about the other pairs in the room, just as he'd done with the Gryffindors—more fairness than Harry had expected, really—and had enough time to go over a few in front of the class. He'd cut the practical portion short, due to the intensity of the students. When he looked up from skimming the first several essays, he was sneering. Harry couldn't remember Snape ever _sneering_ at a Slytherin student before, and raised his eyebrows.

 

“Not one of you—not _one—_ has understood the purpose of this exercise. I had a Gryffindor understand nearly right away, just this morning. A _Gryffindor_. And yet you, who think yourselves so clever, have missed the point entirely. You may all leave. Now!”

 

The last word was roared just as the bell rang, and Harry wondered just how Snape managed to time everything so perfectly, before he realized that another class would be coming in, and he still had to go find the classroom for Ghoul Studies. Slipping out just behind Zabini, Harry missed the rather curious look Professor Snape gave his hiding spot, or the fact that the man waved a cautious hand in the empty space, in his hands one of the books that had bounced further afield than most, after hitting Harry's head.

 

“For once, Mr Potter,” Snape said quietly as his first year Hufflepuffs began to file into the room, “I will let you play your games. But only just this once.”

 

In a locked drawer of the desk, sat Harry's essay, all on its own, and for once Snape hadn't been able to think of a single thing to circle in red or write snide comments about, because alone of all the sixth years, Harry Potter had been the only one who truly understood.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Harry was almost late to his new class because he'd had to duck behind a statue to take off the invisibility cloak and hide it under his robes again, and then a group of girls had stopped to chat just outside of his hiding place. By the time he actually found the room (which wasn't really all that far from the Defence room), most of the students had already arrived. The room seemed to be made up mostly of Ravenclaws, but there was a lone Hufflepuff girl towards the far side of the room, and Blaise Zabini sat up front and center, such a marked difference from his apparent attitude towards Defence that Harry was intrigued. He chose a seat one back and to the right of Zabini, so as to keep a good close eye on the other boy.

 

Harry couldn't help but stare when their professor walked in, because the professor looked nothing like he'd expected for a Ghouls Studies class. He was a younger man, in his early twenties, maybe. Harry thought he looked familiar, but put it down to having seen him in the Great Hall with the other professors. When he'd seen the class name in his schedule, Harry had thought of someone who fit the muggle goth fashions, all black nail polish, dyed black hair, and dark clothes. This man, however, was tawny brown haired, and seemed to wear lots of blue and grey. In general he seemed very bright and cheery, and not at all someone who was about to spend an hour lecturing on the ins and outs of the undead.

 

“Hello, all,” he said, and promptly sat on his desk. “As some of you may know, I'm Nestor Nix. I left Hogwarts two years ago, and this past summer I died.”

 

Harry felt the colour drain from his face. This was that first year's older brother, then, one who had died in a dementor attack.

 

“There's some...misinformation about my death being spread around,” said Professor Nix. “I was spending my post-Hogwarts years studying death in Ancient Egyptian wizarding culture, but I was back for the summer to visit with my brother, who's a first year here. I was supposed to come teach this course this fall, anyway,” he said with a shrug. “I wasn't going to let a silly little thing like death stop me from having my dream job. So here I am.”

 

He gestured at the board where his name was written, and his dates of birth and death suddenly appeared as well.

 

“I'm...a bit of an anomaly, I suppose,” admitted the young ghost. “Something went a bit...odd when I died. You're supposed to get a bit more help than I did, generally speaking, and so I'm _here_ a bit oddly. I was casting some rather unique magics just prior to my death, and that may also have caused some...unexpected side effects, if you will.”

 

Professor Nix went quiet, as if trying not to think about it, then looked back up at their very still, very uncomfortable expressions.

 

He flashed them a very bright smile. “But anyway, Ghoul Studies! Any questions before we get started?”

 

No one raised their hand, but Harry was seriously confused, and wasn't about to just move on until he had an answer, so slowly he raised his own. If no one else was going to ask (maybe this was one of those things that Pureblood children were raised knowing about, and which everyone forgot to mention to Harry), then he would.

 

“Mr Potter?” asked Professor Nix.

 

“Sorry, but, um... If you hadn't said you were a ghost, I wouldn't have known. You look completely solid. Is that something to do with the magics you mentioned, do you think?”

 

Nix paused a very long time, and Harry hoped it hadn't been a rude question. He could feel the eyes of his classmates on him. Zabini had even turned around in his seat to stare.

 

“I think,” said Nix at last. “That that is something far more to do with you, Mr Potter, than with me.”

 

Harry swallowed and, miserable, sank lower into his seat.


	12. Chapter 11

It was a shivering, emotionally drained Harry Potter who climbed through the portrait hole entrance to Gryffindor Tower that afternoon. It was unseasonably cool in the castle, for September, and Harry wanted nothing more than to go sit in front of the common room fire and procrastinate, because he knew Hermione would want to go over their Transfiguration homework again, and probably practice the spell until she could get all of her hair smooth in one go.

 

Harry wanted nothing more than to go sit in his favourite armchair, read quidditch magazines, and pretend he knew nothing at all about Nestor Nix or his little brother. He wanted to pretend Ghoul Studies had never happened—or that he had at least never opened his mouth in class. He wanted to forget that people could die at all.

 

Harry rarely got the things he wanted.

 

Half-dragging his book bag, Harry headed straight for his favourite chair, a large, obnoxiously gold one, that he'd moved closer to the fire at the end of last year, and which no one moved back over the summer.

 

Except now, as he moved towards it, he saw that someone  _ had  _ pushed it back, and that someone was actually  _ sitting  _ in it still, a large book in his lap, and several more tucked in next to him, between his hip and the armrest.

 

Orpheus Nix was sitting in Harry's chair.

 

The first year looked up, saw Harry staring at him and raised both eyebrows in innocent confusion.

 

“ Harry, over here!” called Hermione. Turning, Harry saw his friends sitting at one of the study tables near a window. With a last glance over his shoulder at his armchair, Harry went and sat with them. Hermione hadn't been back long, either, he could tell. Most of her books were still packed into her bulging book bag. Harry pulled out one of his own text books, not caring which he grabbed, and looking again towards the fireplace.

 

“ He's in my chair,” said Harry quietly.

 

“ What?” asked Hermione. “Oh, Harry, it's not like it has your name on it...”

 

Ron and Harry both shifted guiltily. Hermione stared.

 

“ Er, it does, actually,” said Harry.

 

“ We both carved our names into our favourite seats over Christmas one year,” said Ron.

 

“ You vandalized school property!?” Hermione looked horrified.

 

“ The point  _ is _ ,” said Harry forcefully. “That's our spot. Everyone knows we always sit together over there.”

 

“ He's a first year, Harry, and it's only the second day of classes.  _ He  _ doesn't know.”

 

Harry made a face, knowing Hermione was right, of course.

 

“ Buck up, mate,” said Ron. “We'll steal it back later. It's too warm to sit that close to the fire, anyway.”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “How was Ghoul Studies, Harry?” she asked, seeming just a touch desperate to change the subject. Harry groaned and put his head down on the pages of his book. Startled by this reaction, Hermione hurried to press on. “Because I think I'm going to just  _ love  _ Ancient Studies. I've always liked history, you know. It was one of my favourite classes back in muggle school, and learning about long gone wizarding civilizations is going to all be so new and exciting!”

 

“ By which she means it's gonna be loads of stuff about old things, and dead people.  _ Dull _ , Hermione, not exciting,” said Ron. “Fancy a game of Exploding Snap, Harry?”

 

Harry made a face, unsticking his cheek from the book page. “Actually, I really should work on that transfiguration homework,” he muttered.

 

Ron sniggered. “Well, Luna at least thought you'd done a good job of it...”

 

Harry blushed scarlet, and shoved Ron's shoulder, which only made Ron laugh harder.

 

Ignoring Ron as he went to find Neville for a game, Harry pulled a few odds and ends out of his pockets, found a broken quill nib, and transfigured it into a mirror. Like the one in class, it had a sort of branch-like quality to the frame, though it was cold silver as the nib had been.

 

“ You've got that part of it down, at least,” said Hermione, mercifully saying nothing on the subject of Luna's quirks.

 

Harry gave her a smile. “Once you explained, I really  _ got  _ it, you know? Er...think you could do the same for the bit about the hair...?”

 

Hermione grinned and pulled Harry's open transfiguration book closer so she could reread paragraphs Harry was sure she had nearly memorized. “Okay, here,” she said, pointing out a paragraph. “When they say visualize during the upward motion, what they actually mean is maintain the visualization. You have to have a clear image in your mind before you even begin to move your wand or incant.”

 

Harry looked at her. “Visualize? They're serious about that part? I always thought it was meant more as a helpful tip if you were having trouble.”

 

“ Well, no,” said Hermione. “It's actually more important than either the wand movement  _ or  _ the spoken spell. It's why we're to learn non-verbal casting this year, after the Christmas holidays. Of course, I've started trying it already, but we've been using words as a crutch since we were introduced to magic, so I'm afraid we're at a disadvantage... But, no, the image of the end result is the most important bit. It's essentially mind over matter, you know?”

 

Harry made a face and looked at her again, feeling incredibly slow.

 

Hermione sighed. “Well, then, how do you usually transfigure anything?”

 

“ Uh, I wave my wand, say the words, and if we're aiming for “chair” I hope that's what I get, I suppose.” Hermione's look of horror would have been funny, probably, if it hadn't been aimed at Harry. He sighed. “That's wrong, I take it.”

 

“ I'm just astonished that you get any results at  _ all! _ ” she said, and looked at his mirror again. “You've created this same design twice now, though, so surely there must be  _ some _ active imagining going on when you're casting.”

 

“ Er...maybe. The Dursleys always discouraged imagination, you know. Thought I'd get funny ideas. My teachers thought they were religious, because Dudley and I were always taken out of the classroom when read-aloud was a book with magic in it. Aunt Petunia insisted.”

 

Hermione was shaking her head. “You've missed so many good books that way!” she said, her tone implying that she couldn't think of a worse fate for any child than to have been denied such books as The Secret of Platform 13, So You Want to be a Wizard, or A Wrinkle in Time—or any of the other great stories that encourage children to think about the world in ways most adults forget how to.

 

Harry shrugged, and Hermione got that determined look in her eyes again. “I'll lend you some of my favourites, Harry. I'll have my Mum owl some.”

 

“ Er...tell you what. Neville got me a book of wizarding legends for my birthday. Let me read that first, yeah?”

 

Hermione nodded slowly. “We'll do a trade. You read that, then I'll borrow it, and you can read one of mine. Deal?”

 

Seeing no way out, Harry agreed, and let Hermione explain why what he was doing in transfiguration was wrong. When, by the end of the evening, he had managed to turn his entire head of hair into dreadlocks, she declared him a success.

 

Getting them to go away again, however, was slightly less successful. In the end, Hermione went to fetch a pair of scissors.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Harry sighed and ran his hand through the short ragged hair that now covered his head. At least she hadn't done what Aunt Petunia had, and left just his fringe. But his hair was far shorter than he was used to, and he didn't like it much at all.

 

Maybe it would grow back like it had when he was a kid? He hoped so, but accidental magic like that happened so much less once a witch or wizard started learning to use magic properly. It no longer needed to force itself out to express itself, or so their Magical Theory class explained, because they were actively bringing it out and using it.

 

Hermione had done an okay job, but...he just didn't look like himself.

 

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and frowned again, wishing it was back to its normal length. The rest of Gryffindor Tower had certainly gotten a good laugh out of the sight of Hermione snipping stubby little dreads off his head, and Harry could definitely see how it was amusing, but it hadn't been  _ that  _ funny! Ron had cried, he'd been laughing so hard, and Dean had done a sketch of the whole affair.

 

With a last look at his reflection, Harry went back to the sixth year boys' dorm to go to bed, and as he fell into sleep, the forest rose up to meet him.

 

The rain was pounding down, harder than he had ever felt it before. He pulled his dream cloak tight around himself, holding it against the mewling wind that tugged insistently at its hems. Harry looked at his feet, where the ghost-bright grass was being flattened in the downpour, and there, just beginning to be washed away, was a massive paw print.

 

For reasons Harry dared not think about, his throat tightened up and his heart turned a painful cartwheel beneath his ribs. He followed the tracks, and they led him towards the centre of the forest. Above him, the trees were dark and filled with owls and crows, all pale and semi-translucent as everything else in the dream world was. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, long enough in his dream to get in his eyes. Harry realized he wasn't wearing glasses, and then kept walking. In a dream, what did sight matter?

 

He could hear hounds in the distance, the same baying that had hidden beneath the thunder in Diagon Alley. Those hounds... If Harry's research had been anywhere near the truth, if the white dog with the red ears really was one of the Cwn Anwn... He swallowed, and hurried towards them, desperate to know.

 

It was like running into a brick wall.

 

As before, Harry had reached a certain place, and could not proceed. He pounded his fists against what seemed to be only empty air and finally sat in the wet grass, defeated. The hounds were still barking and howling in the distance, just out of eyesight it seemed. Harry watched, waiting for a glimpse of them.

 

Sitting with his back to a tree, bored, Harry almost wished he were awake again, because at least then he'd have something to do—even if it was getting ready for classes. He sighed and closed his eyes, positive that he would see no hound in this dream, when suddenly a cold wet nose pressed itself into his hand. Harry jerked in surprise and looked down at the hound who had come to sit with him.

 

He couldn't be sure, but he thought this might be the same one from the Alley battle, the one that he'd caught glimpses of. The hound lay down and rested his head on Harry's knee, looking up at him, a silent apology for having distracted him in Diagon, Harry realized, though how he knew was beyond him. He scratched the dog behind the ears to let the beast know he didn't blame it.

 

“It'll be okay,” he said. “I'll live.”

 

Harry suddenly saw something change in the distance, a shift in the light—subtle, but unmistakable—and a great hulking shape was coming at him, full tilt. He fought down the panic, and stood. At his side, the hound was baring its teeth, snarling till flecks of spit were hitting Harry's bare legs. Harry pulled the cloak closer, shaking.

 

He suddenly knew what that thing was. He recognized it, though he had never before seen one such as this.

 

His wand was back in his dorm, where—

 

Where he was asleep. He needed to wake up.

 

_ Now, Harry!  _ he though to himself, desperate.  _ Wake up now! _

 

The thing—the  _ dementor— _ came swooping even closer, and Harry hoped it would hit the same barrier he'd run into, because without his wand, there would be no patronus, and besides, this looked like no  _ normal  _ dementor. It was twice as big, and it's scabby hands were tipped in jagged, six inch claws with serrated edges. Its hood was up, but as it came nearer Harry could see the tips of many shark-like rows of teeth where in normal dementors there was only a yawning hole of nothing, only no shark had ever had teeth so long and needle sharp. Behind those teeth Harry suspected there was still nothingness, still empty evil.

 

Harry did not want to discover if he was right.

 

“ Hound, come!” he yelled, and turned to run back the way he had come. The hound followed at his heels, and the rhythmic pounding of his own feet and the dog's paws kept Harry from losing his mind with terror.

 

_ It's just a dream,  _ he told himself over and over again.  _ I'll wake up, safe in bed. _

 

Harry found the clearing he'd first appeared in, and saw for the first time that there was a stone arch in the centre of it, tattered, smoke-like fabric drifting to and fro beneath the high curve of it.

 

Harry tried to stop so abruptly that he fell, sprawling, skinned his knees on the rough ground, and he found himself lying on the steps to the Veil, so afraid that he couldn't move. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the barrier which had stopped him had not stopped the dementor, and that it was moving steadily nearer, apparently intent on having Harry's soul above all others. It was at the edge of the clearing, and its horrible hands were lifting to push back its hood.

 

The hound nipped at Harry's arm, drew blood. Harry yelped and put a hand to the spot, but it had done the trick and he was up and moving again in seconds, half running half crawling up the step, charging headlong for the Veil, and pausing just a second with his bloody hand on the lintel, not sure what would happen if he went through. He no longer knew if he was dreaming.

 

The hound settled matters, and hit him in the back of the knees. They both fell through the Veil, carried by the hound's momentum.

 

There was a touch of resistance, and then Harry found himself falling forward, hitting his knees on cold stone, and there was wind and heat coming from somewhere—unbearable heat, searing his skin and raking his body like fingernails—and bright golden spots flashed before his eyes. He felt like he was about to come apart at the seams, and struggled to stand. At his side, the hound was looking back at the place they'd fallen through. Harry stared, and saw that the dementor had not been able to follow, but not for lack of trying. Several of its claws had been severed as the air had closed off behind them, and they were lying on the stone of Harry's dorm room floor.

 

Harry looked around him in horror, realizing how close the dementor had come to getting to his friends. The dog was nosing at the claws and sneezed, drawing Harry's attention back to the claws. The strange heat had him sweating and breath was coming only with difficulty. Feeling his back beginning to blister beneath his cloak, Harry bent to pick them up, and suddenly caught sight of his own hand.

 

It was shining and translucent, just like the Hogwarts ghosts. Harry swallowed, suddenly less bothered by the scorching heat. Slowly, he reached out and tried to pick up the claws.

 

His fingers went right through them.

 

Afraid of what he might see, Harry turned and looked towards his bed.

 

His body still lay there, and even from where he stood, Harry could see that he wasn't breathing. There was a sense of stillness around his four-poster that his friends' didn't have, and... Well, he could just tell. He swallowed as he drew closer and reached out towards himself, hand shaking. He exhaled to try to calm himself, and slowly felt for a pulse in his own throat.

 

Nothing.

 

Ragged breaths rose up and shook Harry's body as he fought panic, short and sharp as they tried to drag him down into terror.

 

Harry closed his eyes, exhaled again, then looked at the hound, who was watching him. “I don't know what to do,” he said. The hound sat and stared at him, panting.

 

What was it Snape had always said during their occlumency? Clear his mind. Harry breathed out, and tried to send all thoughts out with the breath. He leaned forward and rested  his ghostly, shining forehead against the cold one of his physical body.

 

Another breath out, out towards himself and Harry dissolved and scattered, and then like a star collapsing was pulled in on himself at terrifying speed.

 

With a gasp, Harry sat up in bed, breathing hard and clutching at his chest. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt, and he had never been so glad for that pain. He looked around, and found the dog was gone.

 

_ A dream, then, _ he thought.  _ Just a dream. _

 

But then he saw the three claws lying like frosted obsidian on the floor. Harry hadn't been dreaming at all. He had fallen asleep and actually left his body and gone...somewhere.

 

Harry sank his head into his hands, and tried not to cry. He didn't sleep again for the rest of the night.


	13. Chapter 12

Harry's morning classes were a haze. Herbology didn't involve any sort of heavy thinking or physical labor, and so Harry more-or-less was sleepwalking all through it, not really hearing Professor Sprout's lecture on Flying Rowan trees. He felt numb and confused, and very shaky. Sometimes he could feel a warm pressure against the side of his legs, and wondered if the hound was still following him, but mostly he was just cold. After the blistering heat of having his soul exposed the night before, it was almost a relief to be cold again.

 

Care of Magical Creatures was immediately after Herbology, and Harry forced himself to wake up a bit for Hagrid's sake. The half-giant gave Harry a small wave as they walked over from the greenhouses. He hadn't had a chance to come visit him yet, and hadn't seen him at all over the summer. Mr. Weasley had mentioned he was out in the field for the Order.

 

“We're goin' to start with a term-long project—somethin' a bit different,” said Hagrid. “Gather 'round!”

 

He had a jug in his hands, and Harry could see that it had _tons_ of little slips of paper filling it.

 

“Yer each goin' to draw a creature's name outta this jug,” said Hagrid. “an' do a study on the creature you choose. A paper, a presentation, and if you can manage to procure yer creature, you'll get extra credit. 'Course, some of you might draw creatures that are restricted by the Ministry...still, sometimes they'll make loopholes, or agree to have a handler bring in yer creature on yer presentation day. That's up to you lot to work out.”

 

“I'll probably draw a cerberus,” said Ron, his voice low.

 

“Well, a good thing you know someone who owns one, then,” said Hermione, a bit waspishly.

 

“Assuming Hagrid still _has_ Fluffy,” Harry added.

 

“O' 'course,” Hagrid was saying, “anything _not_ drawn from the jug we'll study in class, as normal. Tha' way no repeat material.” He looked expectantly at the lot of them, waiting for someone to step forward and take the first piece of paper. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all shifted a bit guiltily. The hound nipped at the back of Harry's foot.

 

With a startled gasp, he stepped forward.

 

“Ah, Harry! Good man,” said Hagrid, and extended the jug. Harry sighed, and took the very top piece of paper from the pile inside, and unfolded it. His stomach did a funny little flip-flop, and Harry nearly laughed aloud.

 

“What'd ye get, Harry?” asked Hagrid.

 

“‘Barrow hound,’” he said, voice more wry than anyone present could understand. Hermione made a little sound of jealousy.

 

“An' do ye know anythin' about them?” asked Hagrid.

 

Harry thought he surprised everyone when he nodded. “They're spectral hounds, found even in muggle folklore, and associated with the Grim,” he said. “They’re white with red ears, and their bark is sometimes considered a portent of death to those who hear it. They're often heard howling at wizarding funerals.”

 

“Er,” said Hagrid, more surprised than was strictly flattering. “Tha's right, Harry. Er, five points to Gryffindor, then.”

 

As everyone else moved to take their own slip, Harry caught Hermione looking at him, her eyebrows high. “I'm quite impressed, Harry,” she said. “Where on earth did you stumble upon that?”

 

“Would you believe I looked it up?” he asked, irritated. “I've seen them, and I wondered what they were, so I bloody looked them up.”

 

Ron went pale. “You've seen them?” he asked, his voice odd and tight. “ _Recently?_ ”

 

Harry, who could currently see the one that had followed him through the veil out of the corner of his eye, thought it might be kinder to lie.

 

“No... Beginning of summer, when I was escaping from my Aunt's.” Ron looked relieved, and moved forward to draw his own paper. He drew it out and unfolded it, and Harry watched in fascination as Ron’s skin turned ghostly. He handed the slip to Harry who read it aloud.

 

“'Thestrals'. Well, that's not so bad, Ron. You can bring one in from the forest, easy! I mean, only half the class will actually know whether you've brought it or not, but...”

 

Ron took his piece of paper back, shuddering. “They make me uncomfortable,” he said. “And they're pretty ugly, not like a nice, friendly dog, or whatever.”

 

“Weren’t you just complaining about a certain three-headed dog a minute ago?” asked Hermione, laughing slightly at him as she stepped forward and took her own parchment out of the jug.

 

She got Cerberus.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

After Care of Magical creatures, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville went towards the lake, intent on enjoying the morning sunlight. Harry was glad he'd worn one of the uniform sweaters that morning, as the grass was still cool and damp with dew. They sat around the lake shore, Neville skipping stones quietly. He seemed bothered by something that morning, but with Neville one simply had to wait things out. If he was bothered and wanted to share, he would. Mostly, though, he just liked to keep things to himself.

 

Hermione slipped off her school robe, spreading it out to sit on, and sighed, tilting her head back in the sun. Harry caught Ron staring and nudged him, grinning crookedly. Ron turned a truly Gryffindor shade of red, and shoved Harry. A quiet scuffle broke out, each pushing at each other until Hermione turned at a sound, and they ceased instantly, so all she saw was Harry digging innocently through his book bag for something, and Ron lying back, apparently looking at clouds.

 

And so their free period, and their Study Hall after, went by, with everyone in seemingly great spirits. Spirits, however, was exactly what was the matter.

 

He hid it well, but Harry was privately having a crisis all morning, and by the end of lunch it had turned into a near panic attack. When his friends gathered up their things, Harry followed behind like a shadow, silent and brooding. Hermione went off to Ancient Runes, casting worried looks his way, and Neville gave him a long, curious examination as he and Ron led the way up towards Gryffindor Tower.

 

“Harry, is there something you want to tell us?” asked Neville, and Ron looked back at Harry with worry.

 

 _Yes_ , thought Harry. _I think I died last night_.

 

But the words wouldn't come out, just a slow breath, and Harry shook his head, giving up. He wasn't sure, anyway. Sure, the whole thing had felt incredibly real, and there had been those...claws...after, but there had to be other explanations. Why would a killing curse rebound from him, only to come back and kill him later in his sleep? And he definitely hadn't _stayed_ dead, so what was even the _point_ of it?

 

 _I think I died last night,_ he thought, wishing he could say the words so he friends could hear. _I think I died, and now I'm afraid it might happen again. And what if this time that dementor gets through, like its claws did? It could hurt you all..._

 

“Just an upsetting dream last night,” Harry finally said. That was typical enough, there'd be no reason for Ron or Neville to be suspicious of more. “Didn't get much sleep,” he said, and that at least was true. They reached the portrait of the Fat Lady and Ron said the password and they all climbed through. Most everyone was still in classes, or still at lunch, so the common room was almost empty.

 

Ron was looking hard at Harry, and finally nodded. “Yeah, you do look a bit off colour. Why don't take a nap, and I'll wake you up for Charms?”

 

Harry knew he wouldn't actually sleep, but he nodded in an agreeable fashion and went up the stairs to the boys' dorms. If he couldn't sleep, he thought, he might as well start reading the book that Neville had given him.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Reading through _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ had definitely helped calm Harry, but in what felt like no time at all, Ron was coming to get him up for Charms, and Harry had to pretend that he'd slept like a rock, and felt so much better, and...

 

And, basically, all the pretending made him even more miserable than he already was.

 

Charms was a fog, and despite Professor Flitwick demonstrating a patronus charm (not that any of Harry's classmates needed it, after all the time spent on them in the DA—much to Flitwick's surprise and delight), Harry just couldn't bring himself to bother with course work. He half-wished they were working on cheering charms again, if only because they might make him feel better, even if they couldn't fix the problem.

 

As they left the Charms classroom, Harry found his eyes trailing over to a side passage, and he stopped abruptly, causing his friends to stop as well and look back.

 

“Harry?” asked Ron. “Something the matter?”

 

“Er, no,” said Harry, feeling disjointed. “Nothing. I was just thinking I hadn't been up to visit Hedwig yet.”

 

Ron raised an eyebrow. “You'd rather go visit your owl than _study_ and _do homework_ with the rest of us?” he said in mock disbelief. “Hermione, did you hear what he just said!?”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway. “Well, we'll be in the library when you feel like joining us, Harry. Don't forget, Transfiguration is due tomorrow, early.”

 

Harry nodded, and wave her off as he turned down the other hallway towards the Owlery.

 

The tower was cold and drafty as it always was, and Harry's teeth were chattering within five minutes, but Hedwig had flown down immediately to perch on his shoulder and preen his hair, and kept making soft sounds at him as if concerned for his well-being...so Harry put up with the cold.

 

Harry sighed, found a mostly clean spot on the floor, and sat. Hedwig moved to his knee, and Harry ran his fingers through her feathers gently.

 

“Well, Hedwig,” he said, voice soft. “What am I going to do?” She blinked up at him, and Harry rubbed at the bridge of his nose wearily, and rubbed at his tired eyes, as well. The scars from when his glasses had shattered, escaping Aunt Marge's house, were faint depressions beneath his fingers. His new glasses hid them fairly well, and he didn't think any of his classmates had noticed yet. He hoped it would stay that way. He didn't want to answer the questions that would inevitably follow.

 

The obvious answer of course, was go to an adult for help—but what adult could possibly help with a problem like his? Harry could just imagine it. _Yes, hi, Professor Lupin. You know how you turn into a monster once a month? Well, I have a similar problem. See, I've been turning_ dead _once a night. Any ideas?_ Oh, yes, that would go over so well. Hedwig bit his finger as his attention drifted away from stroking her, and Harry yelped, and quickly resumed petting his owl.

 

So what was the next best option? Telling his friends?

 

“No,” said Harry aloud. “I couldn't do that to them. They worry about me too much as it is.”

 

He could just...not sleep? _Ugh, terrible idea. I'd be a wreck within days._ Harry groaned, and tilted his head back against the wall. Despite the cold and discomfort of the stone, he was so tired from his sleepless night that he wondered if he couldn't possibly just fall asleep there, among the owls. He started to chuckle at the mental image, then stopped, sitting forward abruptly.

 

He could sleep outside of the dorm each night, in case the dementor tried to come back. Away from his friends, away from Gryffindor Tower, there was a better chance of keeping his...his... _necro_ lepsy, Harry decided to call it _,_ a secret. He'd had no problems sneaking out in the past. All he had to do was pretend to go to bed when the rest of his dorm mates did, and then wrap up in his invisibility cloak and leave. He'd just have to make sure he came back each morning before anyone woke up. That'd be a bit difficult, at least at first. Neville was an early riser, and it would take some time for Harry to adjust to waking up before dawn.

 

Assuming he was ever actually able to get to sleep again. The image of that clawed, fanged, darker version of a dementor kept flickering so vividly in his mind that he would start and look around, hoping again and again that it had just been his imagination. So far it always had been, but he was terrified of the moment when his hoping failed, and that raging cold seized him and held him.

 

Hedwig hooted softly, and Harry was brought forth out of his thoughts. Two Hufflepuff first years with letters home clutched in their hands were staring at him. Harry stared back for a long moment, then slowly stood, carefully so as not to jostle Hedwig overly much. He lifted his arm, and she launched herself towards the rafters and what he knew was her favourite roost.

 

“Sorry,” said Harry, and slipped past the first years down the stairs. He could feel them staring after him, their eyes boring into his back.

 

Harry trudged through the halls until he came to the library doors. He was tired and jittery, but for the sake of his friends, he tried to pull himself together before entering, running a hand through his hair—which hadn't grown back the way he'd hoped it might.

 

 _I suppose hair doesn't grow after death..._ he thought miserably, and pushed the door open.

 

Hermione saw him enter almost right away and waved him over. He sat down across from her, with Luna on his right. She was wearing an extravagant crown sort of thing, covered with tiny pearls and tinsel, with a mirror in the middle of the forehead. Somehow, on Luna, it didn't look ridiculous. Ron came back to the table after a few minutes, and grinned as he spotted Harry.

 

“Hey, mate, how was Hedwig?”

 

“Happy to be back at Hogwarts, I think,” said Harry.

 

“Of course she is,” said Luna. “Owls are the watchers, after all.”

 

“Erm...right,” said Ron. “The watchers. Of course.” He threw a look at Harry, eyebrows raised very high, but Luna was busy writing what seemed to be an essay in Old Futhark, and didn't seem to notice.

 

Harry pulled out his wand and started to practice transfiguring his hair—specifically, trying to make it longer. He wasn't having much luck. Hermione, as usual, noticed what he was trying to do and stopped what she was working on to help him...but not without delivering a lecture, first.

 

“Harry, you can't make your hair _grow_ with transfiguration!” she exclaimed, and snatched his wand out of his hand as if afraid he'd hurt himself.

 

“Well, why not?” he asked, taking his wand back indignantly.

 

Hermione huffed. “Honestly, Harry, don't you listen to any of Professor McGonagall's lectures? Hair and nails are both dead cells. One can't transfigure something _dead_ , only inanimate or animate. The mice we transfigure aren't proper mice, really. It's what makes animagi so difficult and impressive—and so rare—you have to understand _all_ the ins and outs of the transfigured biology. And hair, if you tried to transfigure it longer, would be essentially speeding up the death of your own cells. It's one of those rules of magic that's really hard to get around.” Seeing Harry's blank stare she sighed again. “You can't affect your own life span, not even on such a small scale as one's cells. _Honestly_ , Harry!”

 

Harry shrugged and tugged at his hair. So he could die in his sleep each night, but couldn't kill bits of himself on purpose? It didn't seem fair, somehow.

 

“There's a hair growing potion, though,” he said after a moment. “Why does that work?”

 

Everyone was surprised when it was Neville who answered first. “Well,” he said. “Poisons and toxic substances are a part of nature. They can kill you just fine, and some even target specific parts of the human body. Combined with certain other ingredients we can choose which human parts are destroyed or changed.” He blushed when he saw everyone was staring.

 

“Neville, if you know all of that, why don't get better grades in Potions?”

 

He shrugged. “It's Snape, you know? I get clumsy and nervous when he's breathing down my neck... I was as shocked as anyone when I passed my Potions OWL.”

 

“Me too,” said Harry, laughing slightly. “But Slughorn doesn't seem too bad. I'm hoping that without Snape hovering about I'll actually get a decent grade this year.” He turned to Hermione as a new thought occurred to him. “Hermione, Tonks lengthens and shortens her hair all the time!”

 

“Well, she's a metamorphmagus, isn't she?” said Hermione, as if this explained everything. If Harry were as widely read as Hermione, it might, but he must have, er, missed those books on the library shelves. Hermione saw his expression and made a face.

 

“Non-human blood, Harry. In wizards it manifests as special abilities. In muggles, it usually doesn't manifest at all, or shows up as something subtle, like empathy, or precognition...things muggles are likely to wave away as coincidence. In the case of metamorphmagi, it means that the rule about one's life span is...malleable. It's a trait that, in those with non-human blood, can be turned off at will, more or less.”

 

“So, if Tonks wanted to make herself younger—?”

 

Hermione shook her head. “No, no. She can't live forever, or anything like that. Only her appearance would be younger. Her physical age is the same, no matter what she does, and so she's still bound by the basic laws of mortality.”

 

Harry frowned. It made sense, it really did, but...

 

“Something wrong, mate?” asked Ron, staring at his expression with concern.

 

“No, not really, it's just—”

 

“Here, Harry,” said Luna, and she passed him a mirror. “Try again.”

 

“Luna, it's dangerous! He shouldn't try it at all!” said Hermione, but Harry thought that Luna might be onto something. He took the mirror and stared hard at his reflection, willing his hair to grow. Nothing seemed to be happening, so he shut his eyes tight and wished harder.

 

He heard Hermione gasp, and Ron swear. Harry opened his eyes and looked at his reflection again.

 

“Huh,” said Neville, and left it at that.

 

Harry's hair had grown almost an inch. It was still shorter than his usual style (if it could be called a “style”), but his fringe came down far enough to cover his scar again, and ultimately that was all he really cared about. It was sticking up in the back, which was also more like his usual cut.

 

“Harry, how...?” Hermione's voice was small and odd sounding. Harry looked at her and shrugged.

 

“When I was younger my Aunt Petunia gave me a really dreadful haircut,” he said. “When I woke up the next morning it was back to normal. After I got my Hogwarts letter, I assumed it was typical accidental magic.”

 

“Not so typical, actually,” said Ron. “Maybe your dad had some magical creature blood?”

 

Neville was shaking his head. “Not the Potters,” he said. “Most families keep track of gifts like metamorphmagi, or parseltongue, and Grandmother has always kept track, too, because some of them interact oddly with others. The Longbottoms, for example, have always had a particularly green thumb, but when we marry into the Bones family there tends to be odd issues with our gift, things like plants dying unexpectedly, or turning poisonous when they're supposed to be healthful.”

 

“That's so interesting!” Hermione had actually pulled over a new sheet of parchment and copied down everything Neville had said, as well as what seemed to be notes for further research. “Is there somewhere that all the family traits are written down and collected?” she asked.

 

Neville nodded and leaned over to write the title down for her. “This isn't all of them, since a lot of families keep them quiet, but it's a fair number.”

 

Ron was still staring at Harry as if trying to figure him out. “Maybe your mum's family, then?”

 

Harry shrugged. “How would I ever know?” he said. “It's not as if Aunt Petunia has ever shown any sign of special abilities.”

 

“So, are you a metamorphmagus, then?” asked Ron.

 

“Dunno. I've only ever managed my hair, and this was the only time I've done it on purpose,” Harry replied. He looked into Luna's mirror again. “Think I should try other stuff?”

 

“No!”

 

Hermione and Neville spoke together, sounding so emphatic that Harry nearly dropped the mirror. He stared at them, surprised.

 

“It can be really dangerous,” said Neville.

 

“Write to Tonks,” said Hermione, and pulled her Transfiguration text closer. “But later. We really need to get to work on this homework. Metamorphmagus or not, you still have to learn the transfiguration properly.”

 

With a long suffering sigh, Harry pulled his own book closer.

 

**HPHPHP**

 

Dinner came, and afterwards there were a few hours spent with his friends relaxing in the Gryffindor common room. But then it was time for bed, and Harry, who had grown more and more jittery as the evening progressed, was dreading it. He didn't want to put his friends in danger, but he needed to sleep, too. For some reason, he suspected that he couldn’t have both. Getting ready for bed, he saw the dementor claws sitting in the drawer where he had hidden them, and got the shivers all over again. Just looking at them brought that burning cold back to mind, and Harry had to close the drawer quickly.

 

Ron yawned as he came back into the dorm room after his shower, and looked over towards Harry, who quickly turned back his covers and climbed into bed, for all the world as if he planned to stay there for the night.

 

“Night, Harry,” said Ron.

 

“Night,” said Harry, and then waited for each of his roommates to return, one by one, for the night. When Neville came in, dressed in lightweight cotton pyjamas, he paused and looked towards Harry's bed.

 

“Harry, you still awake?” he asked, voice soft. Harry pretended not to be, and slowed his breathing down to what he hoped was a believable sleeping speed. It must have been, or else Neville simply realized that he didn't want to talk, because the other boy climbed into his own four-poster bed after a few minutes, and after that fell asleep quickly, snoring quietly. Harry waited for about a half hour after all of his dorm mates were asleep, then pulled the invisibility cloak out from beneath his pillow, and climbed out of bed.

 

He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he wasn't going to stay in the dorm that night.

 

Creeping through the common room was something of an adventure, because there were still a few people awake and sitting near the fire (not in Harry's chair, however), playing chess, or reading, so Harry had to slip out the portrait hole when someone sneezed, but he still wasn't certain he'd gone entirely unnoticed.

 

Yawning, Harry paused in the hall a few turns away from the portrait of the Fat Lady, and tried to think of a good, comfortable place he could sleep undetected. The thought of all the comfortable poufs and armchairs in Trelawney's classroom was tempting, but trying to climb all those steps, and that ladder, in the dark was daunting. The Room of Requirement seemed like perhaps his best bet, so Harry headed off to the seventh floor.

 

Pacing back and forth in front of the appropriate stretch of wall, Harry realized he wasn't really sure exactly what it was he needed. Someplace safe to sleep, someplace warm. He wasn't sure what he'd find when he opened the door, but was nonetheless unsurprised by what the room had provided.

 

Soft green grass, the light scent of post-rain cleanness, a warm breeze. The trees went far higher than seemed possible for a room, but then that was part of the magic. Beneath an oak tree there was a low bed set out, with blankets that looked impossibly comfortable, and the perfect number of pillows.

 

Harry stepped into the room with a sigh. It lacked the hazy quality of his dream forest, and there were no footprints in the grass, or—he turned back to check—ominous death arches, but if his dream forest were a real place, this would have been what it looked like.

 

He went over to the bed, sat down, and found it perfect. It was made up with blankets the colour of thunder clouds, and pillows of darkest green. The colours would have been Slytherin in any other setting, but in that forest they struck Harry, instead, as being simply natural and expected. With a sigh, Harry lay back and toed his shoes off, yawning deeply. The room would wake him up by dawn, he knew, because that was what he needed, and the Room of Requirement was good at needs.

 

Harry fell asleep, and didn't know if he dreamed of the forest, or if the forest dreamed of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super long delay on getting this chapter out! But I thought mid-NaNoWriMo season would make for a nice surprise, since so many fics STOP updating during November... XD This chapter has been only mostly edited, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway! Comments are, as always, appreciated.


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